


America's Sweethearts

by sikecarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, Extremely Unrealistic Political Campaigns, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I've never been to any of these restaurants, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inappropriately Timed Miss Congeniality References, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Political Animals AU, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sikecarton/pseuds/sikecarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With her re-election coming up and her numbers falling in the polls, President Elaine Barnes resorts to drastic measures to increase her popularity: a fake relationship between her son Bucky and Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America. (AU with Political Animals undertones.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Political Animals AU. (I know there’s already a million of them out there but you can NEVER HAVE ENOUGH, in my opinion.) More specifically, it’s a Political Animals AU in which it makes sense for a Jewish woman in the White House to encourage her gay son to date a bisexual American icon to help her poll numbers. Basically this is set in conservative hell.
> 
> I'd like to thank my friend [Shiloh](http://ready-edmayne.tumblr.com/) for his invaluable help as beta/general plot magician. This would not have gotten posted without his help.
> 
> Please check out the AMAZING art made for this story, I seriously feel so blessed to have gotten such incredibly talented artists.  
> [Art](http://doomcheese.tumblr.com/post/149475306971/americas-sweethearts-by-non-prophet-ao3-tba) by [doomcheese](http://doomcheese.tumblr.com/)  
> [Art](http://cloudychocobo.deviantart.com/art/Sweethearts-631242267?ga_submit_new=10%253A1472470167) by [xcloudychocobo](http://xcloudychocobo.tumblr.com/)  
> [Art](http://ma-twa.tumblr.com/post/149697032415/terribly-late-but-here-is-what-i-made-for-the) by [ma-twa](http://ma-twa.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, this story is part of the 2016 Stucky Big Bang. It's unfinished as of its initial posting, but the rest will be up soon!

> _AMERICA’S NEW SWEETHEARTS?_
> 
> _The country’s two most infamous bachelors are officially off the market._
> 
> _Because they’re seeing each other._
> 
> _That’s right, James “Bucky” Barnes, son of President Elaine Barnes, and Steve Rogers, national icon Captain America, are two halves of America’s hottest new couple. A source close to the pair reveals that “the two of them are so in love they can barely go half an hour without speaking to one another.”_
> 
> _America’s beloved first son came out almost a year ago, and his sexuality has been surprisingly uncontroversial, perhaps because he hasn’t been in a relationship since his mother took office — until now?_
> 
> _President Barnes remains one of the most popular American presidents in recent history, and her son has arguably garnered even more public support than she has. Will that still be the case, with this new relationship in the public light? At the very least, it’s clear that the Barnes family can count support from Cap and his Avengers buddies._

Bucky jerked as the article landed on the placemat in front of him with a smack. “That’s not my eggs,” he said. Then, upon reading the title, continued, “Oh come on, what is this shit? It’s a little early in the morning for gossip rags, don’t you think?”

His mother gave him an unimpressed look. “The rumor mill never sleeps,” she replied, settling into her seat across from him. “Now read it. And watch your language.” She took a prim sip of coffee and smiled at Christian as he wheeled their breakfast in from the kitchens.

Sighing, Bucky picked up the paper and started scanning the article. He got through the second sentence before he dropped it with a scoff. “This is a joke, right?” He took a sip of his own coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. “This has to be a joke, I’ve never — thanks, Christian — even _met_ Captain America, let alone slept with him.” He took a bite of his scrambled eggs and said, around the mouthful, “And trust me, I’d remember. Have you _seen_ his ass?”

Rebecca entered the room in a wave of floral perfume. “Whose ass?” she asked, sitting between Bucky and their mother. She took a strawberry and popped it into her mouth.

“Captain America’s,” Bucky mumbled around a bite of toast. He tossed the paper toward her. “Apparently I’m fucking a national icon.”

She looked at him over the top of the paper. “ _Are_ you fucking a national icon?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Hell no. Like I said, I’ve never even met the guy.” He buttered his second slice of toast, looking toward his mother. “And anyway, seems like he’s got a bit of a stick up his ass. All-American goody-two-shoes ain’t really my type.”

His mother quirked an eyebrow at him over the top of her own paper. “That’s a shame, isn’t it?” She smiled. “A bit of do-gooder might do you some good.”

“But haven’t you heard, ma?” He took the paper from Rebecca, brandishing it in her direction. “I’m America’s ‘ _beloved first son_.’ The people _love_ me, when they aren’t too busy hating me.” He threw it down onto an empty space on the table.

Elaine Barnes folded her own paper in half and set it on the table in front of her, an almost tentative look on her face. That’s when Bucky knew he was in trouble. “In all seriousness, James...” She paused, and the look on her face hardened into something more determined. “We need to talk about this.”

Bucky shared a look with Rebecca, before saying, “But ma, I’m not dating him. What’s the big deal?”

Elaine set her forearms on the table, clasping her hands together in what the public had termed her ‘negotiation pose.’ “Now, you know we’re getting set up for my re-election campaign,” she said.

“Right...”

“We’ve been looking at how I stand in the polls.” Bucky stared at her, then glanced at Rebecca. She was avoiding his gaze. “The conservatives think I’m too liberal, and the liberals think I’m too conservative. I think this could help us on both of those fronts.”

Bucky stared at her. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, but he was praying he had misinterpreted her somehow. “...What could help us?”

“You dating Captain America. For real. Or, well—” She waved a hand. “—for publicity.”

“I— _what?_ ” Bucky gaped at her. “How is _my_ dating Captain America going to help _you?_ ”

“Well, obviously it would be a huge boost on the liberal side. You know there’s been chatter about how we’ve played down your sexuality to appeal to the conservatives. And then, for the conservative side, we’d play up the old-fashioned American values. You know, Captain America’s whole shtick. I think this could be a real bolster for the campaign.”

Bucky grit his teeth. “Okay, so _you_ date him. Why does my sex life have to be a part of _your_ campaign?”

“Bucky,” his mother said in a warning tone. “This would be for PR. It doesn’t have to be real or permanent, but you know the public never looks at just my platforms. They want to see me—to see _us_ —embodying everything I talk about. I’m not saying it’s fair, but that’s life in Washington, sweetheart.” She set her hand over his on the table, giving him a sympathetic smile. “It would only need to be until the election.”

“Which is a _year away_ ,” Bucky growled, pulling his hand back. “Do I even have a choice?”

His mother sat back, folding her hands again. “Of course you do, sweetheart,” she said, taking a bite of her oatmeal. “But my team has already contacted the PR team for the Avengers, and they’re discussing it as well. I spoke with Tony Stark personally, and he seemed to think it was an excellent idea.”

Bucky stared down at his plate, his eggs already cold and congealing. After a moment, he picked up his napkin and threw it down on the plate, rising from his seat. “I think I’ve lost my appetite,” he gritted out, turning to leave the dining room.

“Oh, Bucky, don’t—” He slammed the door behind him, cutting off her protestations.

-

There were already 50,000 hits on Google. Thousands of articles, hundreds of images of Bucky and Captain America spliced together. He looked at the “Stucky” hashtag on Twitter and lasted all of two seconds before he closed the window. He wasn’t even going to try Tumblr.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Bucky tabbed over to one of the articles he’d opened. Every article he’d skimmed seemed pretty much identical to the one he’d read over breakfast. As the morning pressed onward, however, the discussion seemed to be turning toward Bucky’s unsavory lifestyle and what impact Captain America’s influence would have on it. Some had even begun to speculate how the relationship would impact his mother’s campaign.

Bucky scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out an animal noise of pure frustration. He’d spent most of his life in the spotlight, first during his father’s presidency and now his mother’s. The media had always been invasive and condescending. He was used to that. But this was _absurd_. Not the story—if there was one thing the press was good at, it was printing bullshit like it was the God’s honest truth—but his mother’s desire to go along with it. It was _insane_.

He dropped his hands back to the desk and stared at the screen. After a moment of hesitation, he clicked over to the images tab on Google. His screen filled with pictures of his own face, of Captain America, and separate shots of them spliced together. Some of the latter images were more obscene than he would have thought possible for mere Photoshop.

He opened one of the tamer images, a simple side-by-side comparison of two shots. One of Captain America at some sort of press event, wearing a slick, modern suit and tie (courtesy of Tony Stark, no doubt) and a sincere, if uncomfortable, smile. It was a good picture. His own photo was less flattering: he had a severe, unsmiling expression on his face, and the lighting emphasized the shadows under his eyes and the greasy sheen to his hair. He remembered that event, though he couldn’t remember the night in its entirety. He’d already been high by the time he’d reached the red carpet, and it had taken all his concentration to get through the press shots without giving himself away.

He turned his attention back to the other man’s photo. God, but he was hot.

Opening a new tab, Bucky started another search: “Steve Rogers.” The resulting images were a mixture of press shots and pictures from the declassified SSR files. He opened one of the press shots, taken at what looked like the political summit the Avengers had attended in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of New York. Captain Rogers was standing at attention in vintage military dress, expression grim and determined. He looked _edible_.

Bucky closed out of the browser. Snapping his laptop shut with one hand, he scrubbed at his face in frustration. He wasn’t going to fake-date _Captain America_ as part of his mother’s campaign for re-election. It was such an outlandish idea that it was laughable. There was no way he was going to go through with it. Point. Blank. End of story.

-

“I’ll do it.”

Elaine looked at him over the top of her glasses, setting down the file she’d been perusing. “Pardon?”

Bucky made a short noise of irritation. “I _said_ , I’ll do it.” He crossed his arms. “I’ll date Mr. American Pie, all right? As long as he’s on board with it, I’m fine. But only until the election, then it’s over.”

His mother gave him a small smile, taking off her glasses. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “But I don’t want you to feel like this is something you have to do. I was a little... insistent, at breakfast, but the campaign won’t fall apart if you don’t want to do this. It’s only a bolster.”

Bucky shrugged, giving his mother a small, uncomfortable smile. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’ll be good for your campaign and it’s not like anything could really sully my reputation at this point.” He gave a tight laugh. “Hell, it’ll probably improve it. Give me a little incentive to stay out of the tabloids.”

Unbidden, the stories he’d skimmed over the past half-hour popped into his head: that had seemed to be the general sentiment within them. Little Bucky Barnes, America’s favorite First Son, couldn’t keep himself out of the gossip rags with his self-destructive party lifestyle. It’d be good for him to have Captain America looking over him, keeping a leash on him.

His mother fixed him with an unreadable look. “I want you to do what you think is best for you, not what you think I want. What I want is irrelevant, ultimately.”

If only he could really believe that.

Pasting on his press smile, Bucky said, “I know, ma. I think this’ll be good for me.”

His mother didn’t smile, just watched him with discerning eyes. Then she looked back down and slipped her glasses back on. “All right. The number for Mr. Stark’s PA should be on your desk. Why don’t you give him a call and get the details all worked out?”

-

The head of PR for the Avengers was a tall, poised woman named Helen Cho. With her pressed skirt and her hair pulled back into an artful bun at the back of her head, she looked like she’d walked straight off the cover of a fashion magazine. She had a sleek leather binder cradled in one arm, which she shifted to reach forward and shake Bucky’s hand. She had a firm grip. She also had a pleasant smile, which she displayed for a moment before speaking. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. My name is Helen Cho, I’ll be your liaison for this project.”

Bucky flashed her his press smile. “Of course. Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cho.”

“Call me Helen.” Another brief smile. “Please, follow me.”

Bucky tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and fell into step behind her. Helen used a keycard to access one of the tower’s three available elevators. The doors slid open to reveal an all-glass interior set into the face of the building. Bucky stared out at the bustling New York street as Helen used the keycard again, this time to select a floor.

Bucky watched the crowd shrink as they ascended to the tower’s upper-most commercial floors. It was popular knowledge that the top six floors of Stark Tower housed the Avengers. Most of them resided there full-time, with the obvious exception of Thor. More surprising was the fact that Captain America kept a second apartment in D.C. No one was quite sure where he spent most of his time, but he was never out of contact when a call came in for the team.

Bucky was pulled out of his thoughts by a soft _ding_ from the elevator. A voice followed, announcing, “Forty-fourth floor, Ms. Cho,” in a crisp British accent. The glass doors slid open without a sound, and they stepped out into the hall. Her office was one of several doors which branched out from the hall. She held the door open for Bucky and gestured for him to step inside. Like the rest of the building, Helen’s office was decorated in Stark’s usual sleek, modern style. It was a large room, though it appeared larger due to the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that took up the far wall. Helen’s desk sat in front of them, facing toward the door and putting her back to the view. A pair of massive, uncomfortable-looking armchairs sat between the door and the desk.

“Can I offer you a drink?” she asked, moving around him to set the binder down on her desk. She gestured to the decanter sitting on a nearby bureau.

“Ah, no. Thank you.” Bucky stepped up to the nearest armchair and stood, uncertain of how to proceed.

Helen smiled. “Please, sit,” she said, as she did so herself.

Bucky lowered himself into the chair and folded his hands in his lap. The armchair was just as uncomfortable as it looked.

Helen folded her hands on the desk and smiled. “I have to admit,” she said, after a pause, “I was surprised to hear from you.” She leant back and looked him over. “I saw the article this morning, of course. But it’s pure tabloid fodder. We hadn’t even planned to release a statement in response. So imagine my surprise when I get a call from James Barnes _himself_ , asking for a meeting to discuss it.”

A short, uncomfortable laugh escaped him. “Yes, well...” He trailed off and took the opportunity to clear his throat. “My mother is an ambitious woman. She saw this article as... an opportunity.”

Helen’s eyebrows shot up. “An opportunity?” she prompted, sounding both amused and expectant.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that _he_ had made the decision to approach her. His mother may have prompted it, but _he_ had been the one to act.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “An opportunity. My mother’s looking to boost her polls numbers on both sides, and I think you can help. I’m not really here to talk politics, but essentially: her gay son shacking up with Captain America, the face of good old-fashioned American patriotism—” He was interrupted by an inelegant snort from Helen, but she waved for him to continue. After a pause, he did. “Right... Well. It’s a liberal picture painted with conservative colors, is what I’m trying to get at. Best of both worlds—or about as close as you can get in American politics. She talks the moderate talk, and... I walk the moderate walk.”

He settled back in the chair when he was done, feeling a bit deflated from Helen’s premature—and not quite encouraging—response. When he glanced up at her again, however, her face was pensive.

“I assumed political influence would be the crux of it,” she admitted, still focused on a point just above and beyond his right shoulder. “And your mother’s reasoning appears sound, to an extent.” A small, absent smile graced her face as she finished, like she was remembering an old joke. She returned her attention to him then, straightening in her chair. “I assume your presence means you’ve given your consent?” she prompted, looking to him for agreement. At his nod, she continued, “Well, in that case, we should be able to get moving on this by this evening.”

“This evening?” Bucky repeated, straightening as she stood. He watched her scoop up her leather binder again, as well as a sleek Starkphone which she began to type on as she strode toward the door. Bucky scrambled to follow her. “Isn’t that a bit—soon?”

Helen threw an amused smile over her shoulder. “All due respect, Mr. Barnes, but if you think any PR team covering Tony Stark ever sleeps, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

“Well, yes,” he conceded, following her into the hall, “but I assumed it would take longer to get Captain America on board. It doesn’t—well, it doesn’t seem like something he’d agree to right off the bat.”

They stopped in front of the elevator. “Captain Rogers is on board,” Helen said, swiping her key card.

“You sound very certain,” Bucky said, eyebrows raised.

She looked at him, one of her own elegant eyebrows arched. “I am certain.”

Before Bucky could inquire as to _why_ she was so certain, the elevator doors slid open with a _ding_ to reveal none other than the good Captain himself. He was mid-laugh, a broad smile on his face as he listened to Natasha Romanoff murmur something to him under her breath. Her own smile was already slipping off her face when she and Bucky locked eyes. Captain America had yet to notice them, his attention fixed on his hands and the headphones he was attempting to untangle.

Helen stepped into the elevator. “Ms. Romanoff, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers glanced up then, first at Helen and then at Bucky. His eyes widened and the smile slid off his face as he stood up straight, tucking his hands—and the headphones—into his pockets.

“Helen,” Romanoff said. “And James Barnes. What a surprise.”

Somehow, Bucky didn’t think she was surprised. Her words seemed to shake Rogers out of his perturbed formality, however. He gave Helen a smile, greeting her with a warm, “Afternoon, Helen.” The smile he gave Bucky was smaller and more reserved. “Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky was still adjusting to their sudden presence, and it took him a moment to realize Helen was holding the door open for him with one arm. Feeling himself flush, he hurried onto the elevator. He murmured a sheepish introduction and tucked his hands into his pockets.

They rode in not-quite-comfortable silence for a couple of beats before Natasha spoke. “I assume this is about this morning’s article.”

Bucky felt his flush deepen. He kept his head ducked down, staring at the floor ascending beneath his feet.

Helen made a noise of confirmation. “Mr. Barnes came to discuss it with me in person. Quite gracious of him, really.”

Bucky’s face was on _fire_. He’d been on _national television_ since he was just a _kid_ during his father’s presidency, but this had to be the most distressing minute of scrutiny he’d ever experienced.

Romanoff was the only one watching him, not bothering to hide her interest in his presence. Rogers and Helen were both staring ahead, although Helen didn’t appear to be quite as uncomfortable as Rogers.

“Very gracious indeed,” Romanoff murmured. From the corner of his eye, Bucky could see a smirk slide onto her face.

Bucky ignored her, concentrating on trying to will down his blush. By the time the calm British voice announced their arrival on the ground floor, Bucky’s complexion was back to normal.

The doors slid open, and Rogers gestured for Helen and Bucky to step out first. Romanoff was inspecting her nails, smirk still in place. Bucky followed Helen out into the lobby, Romanoff and then Rogers trailing just behind them.

At the door, Helen stopped and turned to face Bucky. “Thank you again for coming to meet with me in person, Mr. Barnes,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. He took it as she continued. “I’ll look into what we discussed and I’ll get back to you sometime this evening.”

Bucky let go of her hand and nodded. “That sounds fine,” he said. “You have my number.”

Helen smiled. Uncertain, Bucky glanced toward Rogers and Romanoff again. “Well...” He trailed off, one hand coming up to ruffle his hair in a nervous gesture. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.” He winced: years in the White House fishbowl left him in the habit of defaulting to formality when he was uncomfortable.

But Rogers gave him another small smile. “Pleasure meeting you as well,” he said, reaching forward to shake Bucky’s hand.

Romanoff didn’t say anything, instead opting to give him another smirk and a sarcastic, two-fingered salute from her temple.

“Right,” Bucky said after a pause. “Well. Goodbye.” He turned and all but raced back to the private car.

-

Once he was back in D.C., Bucky spent the rest of the evening waiting to hear from Helen. By the time she finally called, it was nearing eight o’clock and Bucky was about ready to tear his hair out.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason he was so nervous. The situation was certainly unorthodox, but Bucky had been party to far stranger things without this level of stress. It didn’t help that whenever he thought about the meeting with Helen, his mind flashed back to the uncomfortable elevator ride and Romanoff’s smirk.

Every time his phone rang, Bucky sprang for it—but it was always Rumlow. Bucky ignored each call, watching the voicemails stack up one by one. After the seventh call, Bucky listened to the most recent message.

Rumlow’s voice was jarring. It brought him right back to that day almost a month ago, the last time he’d seen the other man. _Hey man_ , he said, _I’m starting to get pissed off. Why the fuck aren’t you taking my calls? C’mon, there’s a killer party this weekend and it’s totally your scene._ A pause. _Look man, you got a busy life, I get it—but c’mon, it’s been a month! Even if you can’t come to the party, we should meet up—I’ve got some stuff for you, it’s pretty tight. So hit me back._ The message cut off.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the phone in a tight grip. He took a deep breath and forced himself to release his grip on it. It bounced against the couch cushion, unharmed. Bucky dragged his free hand down his face and fished a coin out of his pocket with the other.

He’d gotten the coin at his very first NA meeting, almost a month ago. It was a newcomer chip: no larger than a dollar coin, made of copper and warm from his body heat. The front declared him 24 hours sober, while the back had an inscription of the serenity prayer. It wasn’t his only coin. He had a 30-day coin as well, which he’d gotten at his second NA meeting on his second day out of rehab, but the newcomer chip was different. The symbolism of his first chip was more powerful to him because it meant he’d made it. He’d completed a 28-day stint at rehab, he’d gotten himself _clean_ , and his first stop after leaving the treatment facility had been an NA meeting. It was a tangible reminder that he’d committed himself to getting better.

Bucky closed his hand around the coin, reciting the serenity prayer in his head as he tried to get his pulse back under control. Rumlow had been more than just an enabler: he’d introduced Bucky to coke, and he’d encouraged him to continue using. It had been the driving force behind their friendship—if what they had had could be called a friendship—and hearing Rumlow’s voice now brought everything flooding back to the forefront of Bucky’s mind.

When his phone rang, he almost didn’t hear it. Even when he did, he wasn’t sure he wanted to pick it up. If it was Rumlow, there was no doubt in his mind that he’d pick up the call and agree to meet on the spot. But if it was Helen...

Bucky swallowed again and picked up the phone, keeping a firm grip on his coin. He let out a shaky breath at the sight of Helen’s name and answered the call.

“Helen, hi,” he said, voice a little shaky.

“Good evening,” she said. A brief pause. “Is everything okay? Did I call at a bad time?”

“No,” Bucky said quickly. “No, not at all. Your timing was perfect, actually. I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Excellent.” Her voice was warm. “Well, I’m calling to update you, as promised. I spoke with Captain Rogers earlier and he assured me he’s on board.”

“—Really?”

“Really,” she replied. “Now, as soon as we’ve hung up, I’ll be contacting your mother’s PR team to get the ball rolling on this. They’ll give me a full rundown of your schedule until the election, as well as any essential conditions and legal documentation.”

“All right,” Bucky said.

“Your first public appearance will most likely be sometime in the next week, excluding any supervillain attacks,” Ms. Cho said, a hint of a smile in her voice. “In the meantime, just try to keep a low profile. I’m sure your team will brief you on social media and upcoming appearances.”

Bucky made a noise of agreement.

“Now, is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” she asked.

Bucky thought for a moment. “Well, there is one... thing...” He trailed off, uncertain.

“Yes?” Her voice was expectant, but there was no trace of impatience.

“Is Captain Rogers... comfortable with this?”

There was a beat of silence, like Helen was surprised. “Yes,” she said. “He’s comfortable with it.”

Another pause, this time from Bucky himself. “All right,” he said, feeling the nervous tightness in his chest loosen by a fraction. “Okay. Good.”

“Good,” Helen agreed, a smile in her voice. “Now, if there’s nothing else...”

“No, no,” Bucky said, “that’s all. Thank you for calling so promptly.”

“Of course. I’ll speak with you again soon. Have a good evening, Mr. Barnes.”

“You too. Goodnight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, Bucky was stood in front of his closet, agonizing over what to wear on his _fake date_ with Captain America. He was a little disgusted with himself: he had never, _never_ , been this indecisive over clothing before. Not when he’d come out as a teenager in the White House, not at his mother’s inauguration— _never_.

He let out a groan and collapsed back onto his bed, grinding his palms against his closed eyes.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to wear on a date—though his past dates had tended to be big on tequila and short on time—he just didn’t know what to wear on a date with _Captain America_. They were going to some fancy French restaurant the PR experts had decided on, and Bucky wasn’t sure whether he should be leaning more toward conservative or slutty. Instinct told him to go slutty, but the thought of Captain America’s disapproving face made him think conservative was the way to go.

Bucky sighed, letting his hands drop onto the bed. After a moment of staring up at the ceiling, he rolled over onto his stomach and crawled up the bed to fetch his phone off the bedside table. He called Becca and listened as the phone rang.

When she answered, Bucky could hear music playing in the background. “Hey, Buck.”

“Hey,” Bucky said. “Are you busy?”

The music cut off. “Nope, what’s up?”

He hesitated. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“I make no promises.”

Bucky sighed. “Can you come over?”

“Why?” Becca asked.

“I... can’t decide what to wear.”

“Wear?” Becca snorted. “For what, your debutante ball? You’ve never had trouble picking out your own clothes before.”

“No,” Bucky snapped. “It’s not—it’s for the Captain America thing.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Becca said in a delighted tone. “You mean your _date_.”

“ _Fake_ date,” Bucky clarified. “Now, are you gonna help me or not?”

Becca let out an airy laugh. “Of course, you know I’ve got your back. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

-

“All right,” Becca said, clapping her hands together. “So are we going for slutty or conservative?”

Bucky let out a loud groan, collapsing back onto his bed again. “I don’t _know_ ,” he moaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Okay,” Becca said, drawing the word out. “Well, what are you hoping to accomplish here? Do you just want to get this over with or are you angling to get laid for real? No judgment,” she added, at Bucky’s scandalized look.

“I’m not trying to get _laid_ ,” Bucky said. His tone might have been a tad bit sulky. “I just wanna... _look_ like someone who’s gonna get laid.”

“So... we’re going for conservatively slutty, is what you’re saying,” Becca said, folding her arms across her chest.

“...Yes.”

“You’re in luck, bro.” Becca turned to face the closet. “That is a look I’ve long-since mastered.”

Bucky laughed and sat up to see Becca pulling an expensive cashmere sweater off a hanger. She tossed it over her shoulder. Bucky caught it and looked down at the soft material.

“Interesting choice,” he said, glancing up just in time to get a face full of broadcloth fabric. He tugged the shirt off his face and held it up for examination. “So far, this outfit seems more conservative than slutty.”

“We’re going for an even blend between the two,” Becca replied, without looking up from where she was now digging through his dresser. “Which is why you’re going to wear _these_.” She spun around and presented him with a pair of jeans. The pair he privately referred to as his fuck-me jeans. “They make your ass look amazing,” she added, like he didn’t already know that.

“I see your point,” he conceded as he stood. “But please don’t mention my ass again. You’re my sister.”

Becca shrugged. “Now, do you need help picking out underwear as well, or can I leave you to it?”

“I’m good,” Bucky said, stepping forward and smiling. He bent to give her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Becks.”

She grinned and tossed the pants over his shoulder. “You owe me,” she called, skipping out of the room.

It took Bucky no time at all to get dressed, and when he was done, he had to admit he looked good. The outfit managed to strike just the balance he’d been looking for.

When he stepped out into the living room of his apartment, even Becca looked impressed. He did a little twirl for her.

“I think I’ve outdone myself,” she said, grinning as she stood.

“Don’t go getting a big head,” he replied, moving over to the large mirror which hung in the entry way.

After a moment, she appeared behind him. “C’mon,” she said. “Bathroom. I’ll help you with your hair.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I think I can handle my own hair.”

“Hm,” she said, “maybe.” She tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. “But will it look as _good?_ ”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but turned nonetheless. “After you, _maestro_ ,” he said, gesturing to the bathroom.

It took a full fifteen minutes before Becca was satisfied with his hair, but Bucky had to admit it did look better than anything he’d ever managed. It was a more conservative style than he typically preferred, but it still had a kind of artful dishevelment that kept him from looking entirely decent.

“Maybe you should go into hairdressing,” he said, fussing with some of the looser strands toward the front.

Becca slapped his hand away. “Stop! You’ll mess it up.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Besides, he could be here any minute. I should get going.”

Bucky grinned at her to disguise the nervousness roiling in his gut. “Thanks, Becks,” he said. “I really appreciate the help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, grabbing her coat as she headed for the door. “Like I said, you owe me.”

-

The day after their conversation, Helen had sent him an email containing the contact information for her team and Captain Rogers, along with a tentative schedule for public events over the course of the next year. Which meant that Bucky now had _Captain America’s_ number in his contacts, under “Steve.” Just “Steve,” which felt both furtive and entirely conspicuous, as the only other contacts in his phone without last names were his family and Brock.

As if the thought had summoned him, Brock’s contact picture lit up the screen in a call. It was a picture of the two of them, high out of their minds, faces lit up by the strobe lights at some club in D.C.

Bucky let out a short breath, thumb hovering over the accept button.

Instead, before he could think about it too much, he threw the phone across the room. It didn’t break, but it did bounce off the carpet and hit the wall.

Bucky scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out a rough groan. Why wouldn’t Brock just _take the hint_ and _stop calling?_ Bucky knew he should just tell him to fuck off, but he had zero self-control when it came to Brock, and he _knew_ that if he tried talking to the other man—even to get him off his back—he’d wind up using again.

He should just block Brock’s number, he knew. But part of him couldn’t let go just yet.

After a moment of silence—the buzzing from his phone had stopped—Bucky got up and strode across the room, intent on blocking Brock from his contacts before he lost his nerve.

Just as he picked up the phone, however, the screen lit up again, this time with a text from “Steve.” Captain America had just texted him.

 _I’m outside_ , the text read.

Somehow, it was a little funny to Bucky that Captain America hadn’t come up to knock—but then, he supposed, this wasn’t a _real_ date, now was it?

Bucky shook his head and tapped out a quick reply: _be right out_.

 _OK_.

Bucky slipped the phone into his back pocket, glancing around the apartment to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He grabbed his jacket and slipped it on as he left.

-

Bucky had been expecting a car. He’d really been expecting a car to pick him up, one of Stark’s private cars with Captain Rogers in the back and private driver up front. He’d thought _maybe_ Steve would pick him up in a normal car, up front like a _normal person_. But he really hadn’t expected Steve to show up on a _motorcycle_ , of all things, leaning against the seat with a helmet in his hands like something out of a fucking magazine.

It took Bucky a moment of gaping like an idiot before he gathered himself enough to stutter out a hello.

Then Captain Roger’s face slid into that same small smile he’d given Bucky at the tower, and Bucky felt his knees go a little weak. “Hi, James,” he said.

Bucky made a face. “Please, call me Bucky,” he said. “Not even the press calls me James.”

Roger’s smile was a little brighter. “All right,” he conceded, holding the helmet out to Bucky. “But only if you call me Steve.”

Bucky smiled and ducked his head, feeling a little foolish. But nonetheless, he stepped forward and took the helmet from Steve. “Seriously?” he asked. As he put the helmet on, he took a moment to mourn the effort Becca had put into his hair. “ _Captain America_ rides a _motorcycle?_ ”

“I _just_ told you to call me Steve,” the other man said, cocking an eyebrow at Bucky. “Now hop on.”

Bucky finished securing the strap under his chin as Steve clambered onto the bike, then he followed suit. “You’re not wearing a helmet?” Bucky asked, wrapping his arms around Steve’s midsection. His very firm midsection, which managed to radiate heat even through several layers of clothing.

“Don’t need one,” Steve said. “Now hold on tight.” He revved the engine, knocked the kickstand back with his foot, and they sped off down the road.

It didn’t take them long to reach Marcel’s, much to Bucky’s chagrin. In general, he wasn’t a fan of motorcycles—but he didn’t so much mind the part where he had to plaster himself against Steve to stay onboard.

Marcel’s was packed, Bucky noted as he slid off the bike. Not surprising, since it was Friday night and Marcel’s was one of the best restaurants in D.C.—but it did tend to attract a rather elitist crowd, which was not something Bucky tended to have patience for.

Bucky handed Steve the helmet as the other man climbed off the bike. Steve stuck it in the satchel on the back of the bike, then turned to survey the restaurant.

“So,” he said, after a moment, “Marcel’s...” Bucky glanced at him. “I might be a little underdressed.”

Bucky turned his gaze toward Steve’s outfit. He _was_ underdressed, in fact. He was wearing a white t-shirt and a simple blue jacket over a pair of jeans. Marcel’s had a strict dress code—black tie formal—and under normal circumstances, neither of them would be allowed inside. But Bucky was the President’s kid, so even the most snobbish of restaurants tended to give him a bit of leeway.

“Me too,” Bucky said. “We’ll be fine. C’mon.”

They made it to the door before Bucky’s stomach started roiling. He could see the other patrons inside, clustered around well-laid tables and picking at their artisanal food. He remembered it well—he’d been to Marcel’s so many times he’d lost count, always high out of his mind to get through another evening of his family’s political maneuvering.

Bucky forced himself to swallow. He could do this.

Inside the restaurant, the host led them to a secluded table near the back. He saw a couple people glance up at them, but none of them seemed all that interested.

“This looks nice,” Steve said, unfolding his napkin over his lap with faltering fingers. His voice was even, but his smile looked a little strained. “Have you, uh—have you been here before?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied. “More than I’d care to admit.” He’d spent countless nights at Marcel’s listening to politicians prattle on about this or that, all while he tried to look polite and engaged and not completely coked out.

Steve made a vague noise. He was looking down at the silverware with confusion. Bucky watched him fiddle with the oyster fork for a moment before abandoning it in favor of the menu. His confusion only seemed to increase from there.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile. He’d been in Steve’s position once: overwhelmed by the restaurant’s all-white ambience, its elaborate cutlery, and its five- to seven-course dinner menu. He decided to take pity on the other man.

“Do you have any allergies?” Bucky asked, aiming for a casual tone.

From Steve’s suspicious look, he would guess he fell short. “No,” he said. “Why?”

Bucky set his menu down and gestured for the waiter. At the man’s expectant look, he said, “We’ll have two of my usual order, thank you,” and handed him the menu.

The waiter nodded and plucked Steve’s menu out of his hands, then turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen.

“I can order for myself,” Steve said, in an even tone.

“I’m sure you can,” Bucky replied, taking a sip of water. “But I’ve been here just about a hundred times, and I still can’t pronounce half the items on the menu. I was just trying to make this as painless as possible for you.”

Steve continued to watch Bucky, but after some consideration, he seemed to relax. “All right,” he said. “Thank you.” There was a pause, then he continued, “Sorry, it’s just—people act like I need someone to hold my hand all the time. I’m from the thirties, not the Stone Age.”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah, I know a little of what that’s like,” he said, watching his own hand fiddle with the silverware. He glanced up at Steve’s inquisitive noise. “When I was getting sober, people tended to treat me like I was broken. They’d either tiptoe around me like I was always ready to go off, or they’d try to do absolutely everything for me.”

Steve was silent, watching him.

“It was very... isolating, somehow,” Bucky said, glancing down at his plate.

“It makes you feel even more alone,” Steve added. Bucky glanced up to see that he was smiling a little. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it wasn’t exactly sad either.

Before either of them could continue, Jonny returned with the first course in hand. Bucky saw Steve balk at the caviar and had to suppress a laugh.

-

By the end of dinner, Bucky knew he was in dangerous territory with Steve. He was just so _good_. But he was also funny and snarky, and watching him lick compote off a spoon had been... quite an experience.

So Bucky knew he was in trouble. He just wasn’t sure what to _do_ about it.

Dinner itself had been great: the food had been delicious (if not very filling), the conversation had flowed easily, and Bucky had grabbed the bill at the end with only minor protestation from Steve.

Now, they were headed toward the front of the restaurant and Bucky was so focused on how _royally fucked_ he was that he didn’t realize Steve was speaking.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, after processing Steve’s expectant look.

Steve smiled. “I asked if you’re ready for the paparazzi.”

“Oh.” Bucky dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen. I can handle the press in my sleep.”

Steve gave him another smile but stopped him with a hand at his elbow before they could reach the door. Bucky gave him a questioning look. From the corner of his eye, he could see the paparazzi already taking pictures of them through the restaurants all-glass front, so Bucky edged a little closer and let a small smile slip onto his face.

“We...” Steve trailed off, turning a little red. “We probably should have discussed this over dinner. How do you want to handle this?”

Bucky tilted his head in question.

“How should we act in front of the press?”

Bucky shrugged. “Just act normal. It’s still early, we don’t need to get all coupley yet.” Bucky let out a little laugh. “Besides, I’m getting a ride home on your motorcycle. I think they’ll get plenty of material from that.”

Steve laughed too, flushing again. “Well then,” he said. “After you.”

There was an explosion of shouts and camera flashes as Bucky stepped out of the restaurant, careful to keep Steve close by. He knew the other man had dealt with the press before during conferences and in the aftermath of battles, but being a celebrity—even a minor one—meant dealing with an entirely different kind of invasiveness.

There weren’t enough paparazzi to overwhelm the two of them, especially when one of them was _Captain America_ , but Bucky still had to shoulder his way past a couple to get to the bike.

_“Bucky... Bucky! Are the rumors true?”_

_“Captain Rogers, are you really—?”_

_“Bucky, can you tell us—?”_

It wasn’t hard to shut the noise out. He’d had years of practice at it. He glanced back to see Steve was behind him— _right_ behind him, actually, crowding Bucky forward and out of the press of photographers.

“C’mon,” Steve muttered, pressing Bucky forward with a hand at the small of his back. He grabbed the helmet and handed it to Bucky, then mounted in the bike in one smooth motion.

Bucky jammed the helmet on his head, less concerned about his hair now, and clambered onto the seat behind Steve. Giving the paparazzi a shoddy salute, Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and they sped off into the night.

-

It didn’t take long for them to reach Bucky’s condo. They’d lost the paparazzi a couple blocks from the restaurant, so it was just the two of them when they pulled up to the curb.

As Steve killed the engine, Bucky slipped down onto the curb and pulled off the helmet. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping it didn’t look _too_ bad. “Well,” Bucky said, fiddling with the chin strap. “Thanks for the ride.”

He held the helmet out to Steve, who took it with an amused little smile. “You’re welcome,” he said. He leaned back and slipped the helmet into one of the saddlebags, then turned to survey Bucky. “You calling it a night?”

Bucky shrugged. “I might hit up a meeting first, maybe watch some TV.”

“A meeting,” Steve said, face quizzical. After a moment, it cleared. “Oh. Right.” There was a pause, in which he seemed to be searching for an appropriate reaction. “I could drop you off there, if you want?”

“That’s okay,” Bucky said. “There’s like, three within walking distance from here. But thanks.”

“All right.”

“Have a good night,” Bucky said, lingering a little even as he backed toward his front door. Steve started the bike, so Bucky raised his voice. “Thanks for fake dating me for my mom’s campaign.”

Steve laughed. He had the kind of laugh that lit up his whole face, and it made Bucky ache a little to realize this was the first real laugh he’d gotten out of Steve.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” Steve said, still smiling as he kicked off the curb and drove away.

-

It took less than two hours for the news to hit. Bucky was sitting in bed with his iPad on his lap when he got a text from Helen, which was immediately followed by an email.

He opened the text first. It read: _Successful launch! Pics and rumors on TMZ, Perez Hilton, Just Jared. We are good to go on Operation Gaymerica_.

Bucky stared. _Do we have to call it that?_ he sent.

 _No,_ Helen replied, _but I’m on my third glass of wine._

Bucky laughed and went to open the email. It contained links to each of the websites Helen had mentioned, as well as one to the general Google news results for “Steve Rogers Bucky Barnes.” Bucky added a Google Alert to his account, then scrolled back to look at the other articles.

> _Well what do you know! Steve Rogers and James “Bucky” Barnes were spotted tonight at Marcel’s in DC, on what appears to be a date._
> 
> _Rumors of a romantic link emerged earlier this week, and they appear to be true! Sources close to the pair revealed that they have been quietly dating for almost a month. “Bucky’s used to the spotlight,” the source revealed. “But Cap’s still a little shy about his personal life. They wanted to keep the relationship private until it got more serious.”_
> 
> _Well, things appear to be pretty serious! After a five course dinner, the pair jetted away in close quarters on Rogers’ motorbike. Maybe infamous playboy Barnes can be tamed after all._

Bucky snorted. It wasn’t that it wasn’t true, necessarily—he’d done a lot of coke and fucked a lot of guys, over the years—but the press never failed to bring up his “playboy status,” even in some of the more politically focused articles.

He wasn’t even going to bother with Perez Hilton or Just Jared. He’d check Twitter in the morning, and that would be more than enough to keep him up to date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is [here](http://non-prophet.tumblr.com/), if you're interested!


	3. Chapter 3

Two days after their first “date,” Bucky got a text from Steve at three in the morning.

 **Steve:** Hey.

Bucky frowned at the message. Why was Steve up so late? And why was he texting _Bucky?_ He wiped the sweat off his face with a towel and replied.

 **Bucky:** hi

It took Steve almost two minutes to reply.

 **Steve:** What’re you up to?

 **Bucky:** running on treadmill. you?

There was another pause, though it was shorter this time.

 **Steve:** Can’t sleep.

 **Steve:** Why are you running so late?

 **Bucky:** exercise gives you endorphins

 **Bucky:** endorphins make you happy

 **Bucky:** happy people don’t do drugs

 **Bucky:** well some probly do but w/e

It took Steve a while to reply. Probably, Bucky mused, because he hadn’t seen _Legally Blonde_ and thought Bucky was insane. But then Steve’s reply came in.

 **Steve:** That’s Sam’s favorite movie. I’ve seen it three times.

 **Steve:** Don’t think that’s quite how it goes though lol.

Bucky had no idea who Sam was, but clearly they had good taste.

 **Bucky:** I’m a master of improv

Steve didn’t reply in the time it took Bucky to finish his run and take a shower, but when he got out he had two new messages.

He cinched the towel around his waist and bent over to finish drying his hair. It was getting a little long, he’d have to cut it before the campaign started. For now, he used his fingers to scrape it back against his scalp so it would stay out of his face as it dried.

He dropped the towel on the bed and opened the texts.

 **Steve:** Clearly

 **Steve:** Are you having a bad night?

Just as Bucky finished reading them, another came through.

 **Steve:** Sorry, none of my business.

Bucky sat down and tapped out a quick reply.

 **Bucky:** you’re fine I was in the shower

 **Bucky:** not a bad night exactly

 **Bucky:** exercise is part of my sobriety plan but I kinda overdo it sometimes

 **Bucky:** it helps w/ the urges

The little notification bubble popped up to tell him Steve was typing, so Bucky dropped his phone on the bed and went to hang the towels back up in the bathroom.

As he was shedding the towel around his waist, however, he caught a glimpse of himself in the fogged-up mirror and paused. He stepped closer and used the towel to clear the steam off the glass.

He looked healthy. He’d gained back a lot of the weight and muscle mass he’d lost during his downward spiral, the bags under his eyes were less prominent (they were a curse of his complexion, but his addiction had made them worse), and his hair had a healthier sheen to it. When he reached out to touch his reflection, his hand didn’t shake from manic energy or the tremors of withdrawal.

A year ago, he hadn’t thought recovery was possible. Hell, three months ago he’d had his doubts, but the utter misery he’d felt as he’d hit rock bottom had spurred him into action, even if that action had been to call Rebecca and tell her he needed help. Within a week, he’d checked into one of the most secure high-profile rehab centers in the country. A month after that, he’d left rehab and gone to his first NA meeting.

Now, he was drug-free, living in a new condo, and doing better than he ever could have believed. Granted, he wasn’t perfect—he over-exercised to counter his cravings, he isolated himself whenever he could, and he was still struggling to find activities that weren’t drug related or hopelessly dull—but he was still recovering.

His hand fell back to his side and he turned to head back into the bedroom, a small smile on his face. It grew when he saw Steve’s reply.

 **Steve:** That makes sense to me.

 **Steve:** Thanks endorphins :)

Bucky flopped back onto the bed. It was a little bittersweet: Steve was the first new connection he’d made since getting clean, but their relationship wasn’t real and it wasn’t going to last. Maybe they could be friends, though. That didn’t seem like too much to hope for.

 **Bucky:** you’re a dork

 **Bucky:** captain america is a gigantic dork

 **Steve:** At least I don’t quote Legally Blonde

 **Bucky:** I feel comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life

 **Steve:** Oh my God

 **Bucky:** last week I saw Cameron Diaz at Fred Segal and I talked her out of buying this truly heinous angora sweater. whoever said orange was the new pink was seriously disturbed

 **Steve:** Do you know that by heart?

 **Bucky:** of course

 **Steve:** Wow

 **Steve:** I’m impressed

 **Steve:** I’m also tired, so I think I can get to sleep now.

 **Steve:** Thanks for talking.

Looking down at his phone, Bucky smiled.

 **Bucky:** of course

 **Bucky:** night Steve

 **Steve:** Night, Bucky. Get some sleep.

Bucky set his phone on his bedside table and plugged it in, then got under the covers. His muscles felt well-used and pliant, and he managed to drift off to sleep in almost no time at all.

-

The next couple of days were long, tedious, and filled with ducking calls from Brock and his mother. Bucky ducked the calls from Brock because he didn’t want to relapse; he ducked the calls from his mother because he didn’t want to get roped into “helping” with anything else for her campaign.

Things came to a head on day five of his self-imposed solitude when his mother showed up on his doorstep, flanked by two secret service agents.

“I do wish you wouldn’t avoid me like this,” his mother said, brushing past him without so much as a “hello.”

“I _do wish_ you’d learn how to take a hint,” he snapped, stepping aside to let Franz and Arsenio through. The two of them immediately began a perimeter check, Franz slipping through to the den and Arsenio heading upstairs.

His mother waved a hand as though to waft away his comment. “It’s been almost a week since I last saw you,” she said. “We don’t have long before the campaign is under way, and I wanted to spend some time with you before things get too hectic. We’re getting brunch.”

“Oh, are we?”

“Yes, now go change. And you might want to do something with your hair, sweetheart.”

Bucky resisted the urge to flip his mother the bird and clomped up the narrow staircase to gel his hair into submission.

-

It took them half an hour to get to Montmartre, during which Bucky’s mother spoke a total of seven words to him.

“Can you roll up your window, please?” she asked, without looking up from her phone.

Bucky rolled the window up without reply. Franz and Arsenio were silent in the front seats. He wished Becca were there. She was able to power her way through even the most oppressive of silences.

With a sigh, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his Twitter feed. Most of the people he followed were vague acquaintances or old friends that he hardly spoke to. After blocking Brock and all of his old party friends, his feed was rather sparse. It took him less than a minute to scroll through a week’s worth of posts.

After a brief moment of consideration, he looked up Steve on Twitter and was surprised to find that he had one. He followed him without giving it too much thought, then followed a couple of news sites. His and Steve’s hashtag, he found, was still booming even a full week after their date.

He scrolled through and favorited a couple with a smirk, including one that read _can’t believe someone named BUCKY landed #actualgreekgod steve rogers #stucky #lifeisunfair_

He was scrolling through a fan account, which used _far_ too many emojis, when his mother got his attention: “Bucky, we’re here. Bucky? What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” he replied. He slipped his phone into his pocket. “Let’s go, I’m starving.”

Montmartre was a small restaurant with a subtly rustic French feel. It was his mother’s favorite place to eat, and Bucky had spent far too many hours there, enjoying the food and attempting to enjoy the company.

The restaurant reserved a small table for his mother near the back, which provided the illusion of privacy without detracting from the overall atmosphere. Franz and Arsenio sat at the table next to them, shielding them from the front of the restaurant and its tall, street-facing windows.

Elaine was still distracted by her phone as they sat down, her face scrunched in a moue of displeasure.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, as their waiter set two glasses of water on the table. He gave the man a smile—he was very tall, very attractive, and had a very shiny gold band on his left ring finger. He still smiled back. “You look irritated.”

“Oh, it’s this thing with Pierce,” she said, finally setting her phone aside. She spread her napkin across her lap and took a sip of water.

“What thing with Pierce?”

“He’s threatening to oppose me in the election.”

“Wait, he was serious about that?”

“ _Is_ serious,” his mother said, massaging her temples. “As is the threat he poses. I barely led him for the last nomination. The superdelegates are what cinched it for me, and most of them are backing Pierce this time around.”

“Shit,” Bucky said, sitting back in his chair. He ran one hand over his jaw, the stubble scraping his palm as he thought.

The nomination was supposed to be in the bag for a re-election campaign; in-party opposition wasn’t unheard of, but it was incredibly rare. Even if his mother was able to beat him in the primary, it would be a serious body shot to the campaign to have Pierce oppose her for the nomination. Voters tended to lose confidence in a candidate when members of their _own_ _party_ were trying to unseat them.

At that moment, Bucky felt acutely guilty over his lack of involvement in his mother’s campaign. It was true that politics had always been more Rebecca’s thing—Bucky was damn good at it when he applied himself, but Becca managed to be _enthusiastic_ about it, despite having grown up with an up-close look at its dirty underbelly—but still, if she could handle being their mother’s goddamn _campaign manager_ , Bucky could at least stop ducking Elaine’s calls.

“Shit,” Bucky said again, dragging the hand up his face now. “Does he want something?”

Before his mother could reply, the waiter returned with their usual meals and set the plates down in front of them. He left with a surreptitious little bow, and Elaine took a sip of her water before she spoke.

“As far as I can tell, the only thing he wants is the nomination.”

Bucky grit his teeth and stared down at his plate. It was Eggs Benedict and it looked delicious, but Bucky’s appetite had disappeared. He took a sip of coffee instead.

“So what are our options here?” he asked.

Elaine took a bite of her omelet and chewed slowly. “Well, we can try to get Pierce to back off,” she said. “But realistically that’s not going to happen. We’re already working on the superdelegates, but it’s slow going and there’s no guarantee we’re going to win any of them over.”

Bucky gave a slow nod, considering. “I could give that a go, talk to a couple people,” he offered. “Where’s Brubaker?”

“He’s on the fence.”

“Let me have a go at him. Brubaker loves me, I should be able to convince him. You can have Becca send me a list and see who else I can talk to.”

“Oh sweetheart,” his mother said. “Thank you. That would be a huge help.”

“It’s no problem,” Bucky said, breaking off a segment of food with his fork. The yolk broke and began to saturate the rest of the sandwich. “What else?”

“My ratings in the polls. I’ll start campaigning in earnest come March, but until then there’s just general PR.”

“Which is where I come in.”

“You and Captain Rogers,” his mother said, with an almost apologetic look.

“Well, that’s going fine,” Bucky said. “Great, even. We get along like a house on fire.”

“Bucky.”

“Really, ma, it’s fine. We’re getting loads of press shots, I’m keeping it up on social media, and we have another date later this week.”

His mother gave him a searching look.

“What, ma?”

“Are you happy?”

“What?”

“Are you happy?” she repeated. “We’ve been talking about me this whole time, and I haven’t even thought to ask about you.”

“I...” Bucky didn’t know what to say. “Yeah, sure. I’m happy.”

“Have you been sticking to a routine?” she persisted. “Are you going to meetings?”

He looked away, feeling guilty. In a way, he missed being in rehab: the center had provided him with structure and consistency, along with a support system available to him almost 24/7. Now he had to create structure himself, through a daily routine, and had to seek out support in the form of NA meetings. It wasn’t the same. It was... hard.

His mother sighed, but it wasn’t a harsh sound. She reached across the table and took his hand. “You have to go to meetings, sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle. “And you need to find some kind of routine for yourself, even if it’s just simple stuff for now.”

“I know.”

“Have you thought about finding a new job?”

He shook his head. He’d been a bartender before, but he couldn’t go back to that now. Alcohol was one thing, but even beyond that the club he’d worked at had hardly been a “safe and sober” environment.

“I think you should make that a priority,” she said. “I know you don’t _need_ one, and I’m sure you’ll be busy helping me with all this—which I _do_ appreciate, sweetheart—but the consistency would be good for you.”

Bucky nodded. It probably _would_ be good for him. He just had no idea where to start.

He sighed and took a bite of his food, watching as his mother picked up her phone again.

-

The location for Steve and Bucky’s second date was _Equinox_ , another upscale restaurant that Bucky was all-too familiar with. The plan had been for Bucky to pick Steve up in a private car, but Steve had offered to come instead and—well, the memory of clinging to Steve on the back of his motorcycle won out over courtesy.

This time, Bucky chose to wait for Steve outside so he could see the other man pull up. He looked just as mouth-watering as he had on their previous date, though he had foregone his jeans and a t-shirt in favor of a white button-up and black chinos. He was also wearing a brown leather jacket that emphasized the already impressive cut of his shoulders. Bucky was wearing an all-black iteration of the outfit, minus the leather jacket.

Bucky hopped down the front steps and ambled over to the bike, giving Steve a slow grin. “You ready for another fine dining experience?” he asked, taking the proffered helmet.

Steve wasn’t successful at hiding his grimace. “Can’t wait,” he said in a poor attempt at a cheery tone.

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him as he buckled the helmet on.

“It’s not... very filling,” Steve admitted.

Bucky laughed. “ _There’s_ that metabolism, huh? It’s not about the quantity of the food, it’s about the quality. And around here, it’s a status symbol.”

Steve’s nose wrinkled, which was _adorable_.

“We don’t have to go to _Equinox_ ,” Bucky offered with a shrug. “I don’t care. Frankly, their menu’s a little too pretentious even for _me_.”

Steve looked at him. “I don’t think you’re pretentious,” he said.

Bucky willed himself not to blush. “Thanks,” he said, a little awkward. “So... uh, where do you wanna go?”

Steve thought for a minute, then grinned. “I know a place.”

-

When Bucky saw the name of the restaurant, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“ _Really?_ ” He slipped off the bike, unbuckling the helmet as he went. “You picked this place on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Now why would I do that?”

Steve’s expression was innocent, but Bucky knew better. He lobbed the helmet at Steve with a laugh, and turned to look up at the building. It was a moderately sized building with gray brickwork and huge front-facing windows, which bore the title WE, THE PIZZA in bold black letters.

Bucky shook his head on another laugh and pulled his phone out to take a picture. Then he turned and snapped a picture of Steve, who was still sat on the motorbike, watching him. His expression turned surprised at the sound of the shutter.

“Hey,” Steve said. “Give a guy some warning.”

“Then it wouldn’t be a candid picture,” Bucky said. It was a good photo, too. Steve’s looked content, maybe a little pensive, and his hair gleamed under the glow from the nearby streetlamp. “This is definitely going on Instagram later.”

He waited for Steve to ask what Instagram was, but instead the other man winced. “Can I at least see it first?” he asked.

Bucky handed him the phone. “It’s a good picture,” he said. Then added hurriedly, “Don’t delete it.”

But Steve didn’t. He was looking at the picture with a pensive expression, similar to the one he had in the photo. “It is good,” he said.

Bucky smiled and held out his hand to take the phone back, but Steve was doing something with it. “Hey,” Bucky said, “what—?”

“Just wait.”

“Don’t go snooping through my phone,” Bucky said, torn between irritation and nerves. He didn’t think he had anything _too_ raunchy on his phone. Possibly some nudes, he couldn’t remember. “C’mon, seriously—”

Steve handed him the phone, a smug little grin on his face.

Bucky pressed the home button. The screen lit up to reveal his new background picture, the one he’d just taken of Steve. Bucky let out a laugh, surprised and more than a little amused.

“You cocky little punk,” he said—more like squawked, really. “I can’t believe you did that.”

Steve’s grin faltered the slightest bit. “You don’t have to keep it,” he said. “Obviously. I was just—”

“Oh, I’m keeping it,” Bucky said, looking up at Steve with a huge, shit-eating grin. “The only way I’ll replace this is if I get a pic of you picking your nose or something.”

Steve snorted, a delightfully inelegant sound. “Good luck with that,” he said. He climbed off the motorcycle and adjusted his jacket. “You ready?”

“Lead the way, Cap.”

Steve held the door for Bucky, and they headed inside.

The restaurant was bustling. Fortunately, most of the people seemed content to take their pizza and leave, so there was plenty of seating available to choose from. They wound up sitting in one of the black vinyl booths that spanned that left-hand wall of the restaurant.

Steve laid his jacket across the seat and looked at Bucky. “Do you know what you want to eat?” he asked.

There was a huge chalkboard menu behind the counter at the other end of the restaurant. It was too far off to make out what it said, and Bucky wasn’t sure how there could be that many possibilities for _pizza_.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” he said. “You can run the show this time. Just no pork.”

Steve smiled. “All right. Any food allergies I should know about?” he asked.

“Nope,” Bucky said, letting the ‘p’ pop. “Go crazy, hot stuff.”

Steve looked a little pink as he walked off, but that was probably from how warm the room was.

With Steve gone, Bucky took the opportunity to survey the restaurant. It was a pretty nice place, all things considered. It had a distinctly modern style and was decorated mainly in shades of red, black, and white. The art was a little generic, but it blended well with the general feel of the place.

More important for their purposes, however, were the massive windows at the front of the restaurant. They would make it effortless for the paparazzi to get their shots. Bucky found himself almost... reluctant to update Helen on their location, but... the whole point of this relationship thing was the publicity.

So he pulled out his phone.

 **Bucky:** change of plans

 **Helen:**?????

Bucky texted her the new address, and she informed him that several paparazzi from the major gossip rags would be there in about an hour. Just in time to catch them leaving.

He sighed, propping his chin up on his hand. He didn’t like how disheartened the exchange had left him. It was one thing to hate the press—and he really, _really_ hated them—but it was another thing entirely to feel _disappointed_ about them interrupting his fake date.

A buzzing sound pulled him out of his thoughts. He picked up his phone, expecting to see another text from Helen—but it was Brock.

_man where are u??? why arent u answering my calls? got some stuff real good ull like it. limited supply tho hit me up TONITE_

Bucky stared at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should really just block Brock’s number. He could do it right now. He flicked over to Brock’s contact and scrolled down to the block button.

His sponsor would tell him to do it. Simply choosing to ignore Brock was a half measure. It was a step in the right direction, but it wasn’t a full commitment. He still read every text Brock sent, listened to every voicemail—it was like Bucky was waiting for the right moment, that perfect storm where he’d be vulnerable enough to cave and give in to what he _really_ wanted.

Blocking Brock felt like the finale to everything, the last brick laid in the wall that separated his past and his present.

Bucky bit his lip, hard. Just as he came to a decision—

—Steve returned with two pies in tow. He gave Bucky a quizzical look, probably because Bucky practically hurled his phone onto the table.

“I got us the works, hope that’s okay. Everything all right?” Steve asked, setting the pie down in the middle of the table.

“Yep,” he replied, with a tight-lipped smile. “This looks great.”

Steve grinned in response. “You’re gonna love it,” he said. “Best pizza I’ve had outside of New York.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bucky said, giving Steve a vague flirty smile. He was still preoccupied thinking about Brock and half measures. It must have been obvious, because Steve tilted his head as he picked up a piece.

He didn’t press the matter though. They lapsed into silence as they ate, both lost inside their thoughts. Bucky had to admit, the pizza _was_ good, but it was hard to appreciate that under the circumstances. He needed to stop thinking about Brock. With a sigh, he dropped his pizza back onto his plate and propped his chin up on his hand.

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky asked, letting some of his frustration bleed into his tone. “What’s in it for you?”

Steve looked at him, face unreadable. He took a bite of his pizza—whether to stall for time or to genuinely consider the question, Bucky wasn’t sure. “Being Captain America is... hard,” Steve said, slow like he was feeling the words out even as he said them. “People assume they know me, because they’ve read the comics, or they’ve seen the movies, or their grandparent told stories about me. They’ve spent seventy years with this _idea_ of who Captain America is supposed to be, but they have no idea who Steve Rogers is.” He set his pizza down, giving Bucky a serious look. “Do you know how many times Fox News has asked for an interview? I grew up a scrawny little queer kid in Brooklyn, and they want me to talk about how gay marriage is a sign of America’s moral decline! Some radio asshat tried to get me on his show to advocate abortion bans; my ma used to treat women in the hospital after they’d had back-alley abortions using rusty old coat hangers.

“I’m just...” Steve trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m tired of people seeing the shield and assuming they know what I stand for. This seemed like a good opportunity to... break past the stereotype, I guess.”

He gave Bucky a tired smile. “Plus, I just like your mom.”

Bucky laughed, but it was a little faint. That was... not the answer he’d been expecting. He’d thought Steve would say something about positive PR or trying to quell tensions between the Avengers and the federal government. He hadn’t been expecting _sincerity._

“She’s pretty likeable,” Bucky said, knowing his smile was weak.

“What about you?” Steve asked.

Bucky tilted his head. He didn’t understand the question.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve clarified.

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Well...” He paused, debating what to say. The truth was, his only real reason for doing this was to keep his mother happy. Maybe to shed his party boy press persona. Nothing of real substance.

In fact, Bucky felt a little guilty. His mother wanted to milk those assumptions about Steve to appeal to the conservative base, as much as possible given the whole homosexual relationship part. But, Bucky reasoned, they weren’t asking Steve to play that up at all. If, over the course of their arrangement, Steve managed to work himself out of the pigeonhole the public had fit him in, well... That would be an unintended consequence of his mother’s plan, and of no concern to Bucky himself.

He realized his silence had gone on for too long. He cleared his throat. “Well, obviously my mother was kind of the driving force behind this whole thing,” he said, shredding his napkin as he spoke. “She wanted to get her poll numbers up, for both sides...” Bucky snuck a glance at Steve, who didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he had a little smile on his face. “And I, well—I don’t have the best public image, I guess. I figured, what the hell? It couldn’t hurt, right?”

Steve’s smile was soft. “Fair point,” he said.

“Plus you’re pretty easy on the eyes,” Bucky said, looking up at Steve from under his eyelashes. “So that’s a nice bonus.”

Steve laughed, face pink. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he said.

Bucky grinned at him, dropping the coquettish act. He had just pulled in a breath to speak, when he caught sight of a cameraman outside the restaurant. His smile fell.

“What?” Steve started to turn, but Bucky grabbed his hand. He spun back around to face Bucky, surprise and confusion warring on his face.

“Don’t look now,” Bucky said, “but the paparazzi have arrived.”

“Oh,” Steve said. His shoulders relaxed. “I thought it was something _bad_.”

Bucky didn’t glare at him, only because he was hyperaware of their audience. “Paps _are_ bad, Stevie,” he said. “They’re the _worst_.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

As if to prove Bucky’s point, a camera flash went off. Bucky laced their fingers together on the table and gave Steve a shit-eating grin. This prompted a series of flashes, Steve’s face growing steadily more irritated with each one.

“Okay,” he said, after the fifth consecutive flash. “I see your point.”

Bucky pulled an olive off the pizza and popped it into his mouth.

“How’d they find us, anyway?” Steve asked, risking a glance over his shoulder. A series of flashes made him turn back.

Bucky made a small wince. “I told Helen about our change of plans,” he said, voice apologetic.

Steve just looked amused. “Oh, so this is your fault but you’re still gonna complain about it?” He laughed a little, and Bucky felt very aware of the way Steve’s thumb was brushing the back of his hand.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I was raised by two politicians. Hypocrisy is practically genetic for me.”

Steve laughed again, louder this time. It drew the attention of several customers—though that could also have been from the lightshow outside, which was clearly intended for them—but Steve didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you done?” Bucky asked. They’d managed to work through more than half of the pie, but he had a feeling Steve could put the remaining pizza away with no problem.

Steve also looked down at the unfinished pie. “Yeah,” he said, “we can head out. Mind if I get a box for this?”

“Knock yourself out.”

He left for the counter and Bucky sat back, pulling out his phone. He opened the photo of Steve he’d taken outside the restaurant and grinned at it. After a brief moment of consideration, he posted it to Instagram with the motorcycle emoji and the American flag for a caption.

It took about two seconds for it to start getting likes, which were quickly followed by comments, and soon his notification feed was blowing up.

When Steve got back, Bucky showed him his phone with a grin. “Apparently people like your photo,” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

Steve set the Styrofoam box down on the table and started to go through the comments. Bucky started loading up the pizza as Steve’s blush steadily increased.

“This is why I don’t have Instagram,” he mumbled. He handed Bucky the phone. “How do you deal with comments like that?”

“I don’t read them,” Bucky said with a shrug. He closed the box and looked up at Steve. “Ready?”

As they left the restaurant, Steve took Bucky’s hand and laced their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is [here](http://non-prophet.tumblr.com/), if you're interested!


	4. Chapter 4

The _last_ thing Bucky expected to find upon returning from a run was the Black Widow helping herself to an apple in his kitchen. He paused in the doorway, out of breath and covered in sweat, to process her presence.

“Uh,” he said, pulling out his earbuds. “Hi?”

His kitchen was too narrow for a table, so she was standing with one hip leant against the gray speckled countertop. She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, skinny jeans, and a pair of sneakers. Somehow _not_ what he would expect the Black Widow to wear, even as part of an impromptu breaking-and-entering.

“Morning,” she said. “Good run?” She took a big bite of the apple.

“Um... yeah,” Bucky said. “Sorry, what are you doing in my house?”

He watched her chew and swallow. “Just checking in,” she said on the tail end of a shrug. “Nice place.”

Bucky watched her as he crossed the floor to the fridge and pulled it open. “Thanks,” he said in a guarded tone. He pulled out a bottle of water and uncapped it.

“No secret service?” she asked, glancing around like she didn’t already know, having _broken into his house_ and all.

“I opted out when I was eighteen,” Bucky said, taking a sip of water. “Are you gonna tell me the real reason you’re here?”

Romanov chucked the apple core toward the trashcan. It landed with a solid thunk. “Your home is not secure,” she said, crossing her arms. Her amiable tone was gone, replaced by an all-business attitude. “Since I doubt you want to move into Avengers Tower or shack up with Steve, I’m going to— _suggest_ a couple security measures.” Her tone made it clear that it was not, in fact, a suggestion.

“And if I say no?”

She shrugged. “Then you won’t know about them.”

Bucky crossed his arms as well, trying to decide whether he was honored or irritated. “What did you have in mind?”

Romanov smirked and pushed off the counter. “Well, for starters...” She gestured for him to hold out his hand and dropped a pair of dog tags into it.

Bucky felt himself turn red. “Steve’s dog tags?” he asked, incredulous. “How are these a _security_ measure?”

Her smirk widened. “Look closer,” she said, inspecting her nails.

Bucky rolled his eyes but did as he was told, flipping the tags over in his hand and running his fingers along the rims. There was a ridge embedded in the rubber edging toward the top of either tag, near where they met the chain.

“A panic button,” Romanov explained, watching him again. “For emergencies. Fire, kidnapping, impending death—that sort of thing. Routed directly to Stark’s AI. Press it and you’ll have three Avengers on top of you, minimum, so don’t hit it on accident.”

Bucky changed his grip so that he was holding the chain.

“Keep them on you at all times,” she said. “I mean that, Barnes.”

“Okay,” he said. He slung the chain over his head and let the dog tags fall, then tucked them underneath his shirt. The knowledge that he had _Steve’s dog tags_ underneath his shirt sent a warm pulse through his belly, which he chose not to examine too closely. “What else?”

“You already have fairly adequate security measures in place,” she said, though the arch of her brow seemed to belie that sentiment. “I’ve already linked your exterior cameras and the security system to JARVIS—that’s Stark’s AI—and I checked your motion-sensor lights outside. Stark’s going to send someone by tomorrow to change your locks and reinforce your windows.”

Bucky was a little taken aback. “Is all that really necessary?” he asked.

The look she gave him wasn’t _scathing_ , exactly, but it definitely implied that that had been a stupid question. “You were already a target, as the president’s son,” she said. “Now, the world thinks you’re dating Captain America. Rogers’ enemies are going to see you as the perfect target—you’re important, you’re troubled, you have zero combat experience. So yes, I think these relatively _rudimentary_ security measures are necessary.”

Bucky found himself fiddling with the chain around his neck. “You make a fair point,” he managed.

“How’s your self-defense?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s good, I guess.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she straightened and planted both her feet on the floor, about hip-width apart. “Hit me,” she said.

“What? No.”

Romanov rolled her eyes. “You’re not gonna hurt me,” she said. “You won’t even get a shot in, I just want to see how you punch.”

Bucky tried not to be offended. She was, after all, a master assassin.

He didn’t give himself time to think about it, just let his fist fly toward her face, fast but light enough that it wouldn’t hurt.

Her deflection was so casual that Bucky didn’t even realize she had a grip on his wrist until she was using it to spin him around and twist his arm up behind his back.

“Not bad,” she said, voice light. “I expected you to be a lot sloppier. You don’t telegraph so much with your body, but your eyes give you away.”

“Good to know,” Bucky groaned, bending at the waist to relieve the pressure on his arm.

She released him and he cradled his arm to his chest, turning to face her.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked.

“No,” she said, with a coy little smile.

Bucky rolled his eyes and stretched his arm out, working it at the shoulder.

“You need work,” she said. “I can train you, if you’re open to it. At the very least, you need to work with someone out here.”

He considered her. “You gonna try and pull my arm out of its socket every time?” he asked.

Her smile turned sly. “Not if you behave.”

Bucky let his arm drop and moved past her to the fridge. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “Now is that all? Can I have lunch in peace, or are you gonna lecture me about my veg intake?”

He went to give her an unimpressed look, but when he turned around, she was gone.

-

The very next day, Bucky woke up to a text from an unknown number.

 **Unknown:** Make up your mind yet?

He stared down at his phone for a moment before deciding it was too early for this. Letting his phone fall to the bed, he got up and went to the bathroom.

After brushing his teeth and taking a shower, he sat back down with his phone to answer the message.

 **Bucky:** Romanov?

 **Unknown:** Correct.

Bucky took a moment to add her to his contacts, and as he finished his phone buzzed with a new text.

 **Romanov:** So?

 **Bucky:** yeah I’ll do it

 **Romanov:** Good, I’m outside. :)

Bucky stared down at his phone, then got up and crossed to the window. He pulled the curtain aside to look outside and, indeed, there was a sleek black Corvette idling by the curb down below.

He looked down as his phone buzzed again.

 **Romanov:** Stop staring and put a shirt on. I want a Slurpee.

-

Romanov took them to SHIELD Headquarters, which housed not only offices but also living quarters, two mess halls, and a gym.

The gym was huge: it housed a full track, a small boxing ring, dozens of free weights, and several rows of exercise equipment. There was also an open space littered with mats, which Romanov led him to as she finished the last of her Slurpee in several obnoxious sucks.

She tossed it into the far-off trashcan, then turned to face him.

“Have you had any formal training before?” she asked, setting her hands on her hips.

Bucky shrugged. “A little. Ma told me if I had to if I was gonna waive the Secret Service detail.”

Romanov hummed. “And how much of that stuck?”

Again, he shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out, huh?”

“I guess we will,” she agreed, lips quirking up into a sly smile. “I’m going to teach you some really basic stuff to start with, probably the same stuff you learned before. But better, because now you have me for a teacher.”

He watched her step forward and square her feet under her hips.

“Here, step up and mimic my pose,” she said, gesturing him forward. He did so. “All right, to start: best places to land a hit.” She stepped up and mimicked a hit to each area as she spoke. “Eyes, ears, nose, neck, groin, knees, legs. Say it back.”

Bucky repeated it back to her.

“Good. Now, bring your hands up like this. No, open palm. Good. Keep them up. Now, your best weapons when it comes to unarmed self-defense are your elbows, knees, and head—remember that—but I’m just gonna show you some really basic strikes for now.”

Bucky nodded.

“All right, I’m gonna demonstrate on you, then you do me, got it? Good. You’ve probably seen these before, but there’s a reason you see them a lot.”

She led him through a series of simple moves, strikes that aimed at the eyes, nose, and neck. She also had him grab her wrist and showed him how to kick out someone’s knee from any angle.

Then they moved on to more complicated movements. She showed him how to break out of a wrist hold, a chokehold, and something called a bear hug, and then showed him how to roll someone who was pinning him.

By the end of it, over an hour had passed and Bucky was covered in a light sheen of sweat. Romanov, on the other hand, looked unruffled. The only sign on her that they’d been doing anything physical was a slight skew to her ponytail.

“Not bad for an amateur,” Romanov said, looking back over her shoulder as she crossed the room. She went to a mini-fridge, which Bucky hadn’t noticed before, and pulled out a pair of water bottles. “Here.”

Bucky caught it and twisted off the cap, taking a long pull. “Thanks,” he said.

At that moment, Steve entered the gym.

He was wearing gray sweats and a _very_ tight T-shirt, and he was in the process of wrapping his hands with tape. When he noticed the two of them, he paused.

“Bucky?”

Bucky raised a hand.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked, looking between the two of them.

“James’ self-defense skills are sorely lacking,” Romanov said, voice almost teasing. “I offered to help.”

“You... really,” Steve said, sounding surprised. He was staring down at his hands as he finished wrapping them, not meeting either of their eyes.

“Really,” Romanov said. She seemed amused, somehow. “You wanna help?”

Steve looked up at that, surprise evident on his face. “What? No, I—that’s okay.”

Romanov ignored him. “C’mon, I can use you for demonstration purposes.”

Steve tore off the end of his wrapping tape with his teeth. He tossed the roll of tape inside the bag he had slung over one shoulder, then let the bag hit the floor.

His face was red when he reached them. “Are you sure you want me to—?”

“Calm down, Rogers. It’ll be good for you to practice with a live person for once.”

Bucky saw him cast one last longing glance toward the heavy bags, before straightening to stand at ease with his hands laced behind his back.

Romanov rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned her attention to Bucky. “Odds are that if you end up in a fight, you’re gonna forget a lot of this. I can try to drill it into you, but that takes time, so I wanna end with something easy to remember.”

She stepped in front of Steve so that they were both facing Bucky. “Grab me, Rogers.” He did so without hesitation, wrapping one arm around her waist and one around her stomach. His face was expressionless, but still bright red. “If you’re ever in doubt, remember: SING.”

As Bucky watched, she elaborated, with a swift-but-soft strike to each area: “Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.”

Bucky stared at her as she stepped out of Steve’s hold. “Did you seriously just steal that from _Miss Congeniality?_ ” he asked, incredulous.

She smirked and gave him a shrug. “It’s actually not bad advice,” she said. “Plus it _is_ easy to remember.”

“What’s Miss Congeniality?”

Now they both turned to stare at Steve. “You know Legally Blonde, but you don’t know Miss Congeniality?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, Sam is gonna get an earful about this,” Romanov said, already pulling out her phone.

-

Sparring practice became a regular thing. Two or three times a week, Natasha would show up at his house and escort him to the Triskelion, where they’d spend a couple hours kicking his ass and call it practice.

At the same time, Steve and Bucky’s dates began to pile up. Helen had given up on trying to direct their dates, since they never went along with her plans anyway. Instead, they’d developed a system where she would give them a date and a time, and Bucky would text her the address of wherever they went so she could let the press know.

It was a good system. Bucky did his best to tamp down his steadily mounting frustration with the press attention, since that was really the reason they’d started this whole thing in the first place.

It was hard though: the more Bucky got to know Steve, the more he genuinely liked him. He was fun and witty and sarcastic, and he had a dry, biting humor that surfaced at the most unexpected of times.

Basically, he was the kind of person Bucky would want in a relationship. If he wanted a relationship. Which he didn’t.

So it was a bit problematic, pretending to be in a relationship with this guy who was perfect relationship material, without actually being in a relationship or wanting one.

Even worse was the fact that their fake dates were now punctuated by impromptu ones, where they’d get coffee and talk. Neither of them called them dates, of course. They didn’t really discuss them at all. One of them would text the other—usually just a _Coffee?_ —and they’d spend the next couple of hours at the nearest coffeehouse.

“Listen, you can’t tell anyone this, okay?” Steve said, on just such an occasion.

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“ _Okay_.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I used to draw pictures for bluesies.”

Bucky waited a moment to see if that sentence was going to start making sense. It didn’t.

“...Okay?” he said, unsure. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“ _Tijuana bibles, Buck_ ,” Steve hissed, looking around like someone was going to jump up and chastise him. “I drew _porn_.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he said, in a mild voice. “Wow.” He took a sip of his coffee.

Steve looked at him. “That’s it? That’s your reaction?”

“Steve, I used to party with a bunch of crackheads,” Bucky said. “Not much surprises me anymore.”

Steve let out a short laugh. “I guess not,” he said.

“So how come no one’s figured it out yet?” Bucky said, taking another sip of coffee. “I mean, you’ve got herds of historians combing through every record of you they can get their hands on.”

Steve took a large gulp of his drink. “They were anonymous,” he said, sitting back. “And not strictly _legal_. But they paid well, and I was too sick to do anything else.”

“Except become Captain America,” Bucky said, smirking at Steve over the rim of his cup.

Steve rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. “Yeah, except that.”

Bucky leaned back to drain his mug, then gave Steve another smirk as he set it down. “Well, who would’ve thought,” he said in a teasing voice. “Good Ol’ Captain America, contributing to the corruption of our nation’s youth.”

Steve snorted. “Not so much now,” he said.

“Oh, I dunno,” Bucky said, smirk turning sly. “I know a couple people you... helped through their sexual awakening.”

Steve choked on his coffee. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky drawled, leaning back in his chair. “Your unit was always a class favorite. Lotsa _pictures_.”

Steve’s face was red, but he looked a little curious. “I—really?” He was looking down at his coffee. “People really—?”

“Jerked it to you?” Bucky prompted. “Yeah, sure. I knew a couple guys.” If Bucky had been one of them, well—Steve didn’t need to know that. “And the girls always got all giggly during your unit.”

Steve took a long sip of coffee. Bucky thought he might have been trying to hide his blush.

“Well,” he said, after he set his cup down. “That’s... interesting.”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him, smirk still in place. It succeeded in making Steve flush again.

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky said, pushing away from the table. “I’m gonna get a refill.”

Steve saluted him with his mug, and Bucky headed to the counter. The shop wasn’t too busy, so it didn’t take long for him to order, pick up his drink, and head back.

When he got back, however, there was a new addition to their table.

“Hey, Romanov,” Bucky said, taking a seat.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “I’ve had my thighs wrapped around your neck, you can call me Natasha.”

Steve choked on his coffee. He was bright red and trying to mop up the excess coffee dribbling down his chin. At Natasha’s arched eyebrow, he cleared his throat.

“Ignore me,” he said, in something close to his Captain America voice.

Natasha rolled her eyes and muttered, “Men.”

“Anyway,” Bucky said, trying to spare Steve. “What brings you to this part of town, _Natasha?_ ”

“Business,” she said, giving Steve a significant look. “And coffee.” She stood and strode over to the counter.

Bucky turned to Steve, who was back to his usual pallor. “Mission?”

Steve nodded. Most of the missions he and Natasha were sent on were classified, so Bucky was usually in the dark as far as details went. That was fine with Bucky: knowing Steve (and Natasha, he could admit) were on a mission was stressful enough, even without giving him all the details.

“It shouldn’t take too long,” Steve said, just as Natasha returned.

“You won’t even know we’re gone,” Natasha agreed with a smirk. She took a sip of her coffee. “Right, Rollins?”

Bucky turned in his seat to find an absolute _monster_ of a man standing by their table, decked out like he was ready to take on the entire coffee shop.

“Let’s go,” the man—Rollins, evidently—grunted, not even sparing Bucky a glance. “The mission’s time sensitive.”

Steve drained his coffee and stood, giving Bucky an apologetic look as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. “Sorry,” Steve said, slipping it on.

“It’s all right,” Bucky said, managing a smile. “Good luck.”

Natasha donned a pair of sunglasses and gave him another smirk. “Thanks,” she said, in a tone which made clear how little value she placed on luck.

“I’ll let you know when we’re back in town,” Steve said, throwing Bucky once last glance before following Rollins outside.

“What, no kiss?” Natasha teased, heading for the door.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Maybe when you get back,” he joked.

“I wasn’t talking about me,” she said over her shoulder.

He watched through the shops wide front windows as the three of them climbed into that same black Corvette that had picked him up almost a month ago. He dropped his gaze back to the table at the sound of the engine. His coffee was getting cold, but now he wasn’t sure he could finish another cup.

He’d just resolved to dump it and head out when his phone buzzed with a new text. He thumbed the message open.

 **Steve:** Smile!

Bucky did.

-

Steve was right: it ended up being a short mission. He and Natasha were back the very next day, looking none the worse for wear. Well, Natasha had an ugly ring of bruises around her neck and Steve was favoring his left shoulder, but otherwise they seemed fine.

Bucky knew better than to show any concern over Natasha’s bruises—he’d learned that lesson very quickly—but he was free to nettle Steve about his injuries.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky said, staring up at Steve from his place on the floor. Steve had started sitting in on Bucky and Natasha’s training sessions. Sometimes he would join in, but he usually just observed. “You jumped out of a thirty story building. _Without a parachute._ ”

Steve didn’t even have the good sense to look sheepish. “I had to,” he said.

“Debatable,” Natasha said from her position on Bucky’s chest. She slapped the top of his head. “Focus.”

Bucky shot her a disbelieving look. “Why aren’t you more upset?” he asked, incredulous. “Doesn’t this _concern_ you at all?”

“Rogers is a big boy,” Natasha said. “He can take care of himself.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not saying he can’t— _ow!_ ” Bucky stared up at her in disbelief. Natasha was _twisting his ear_ like an old grandma, giving him a chilly look. “What the hell!”

“ _Focus_ ,” Natasha said again, and Bucky had to dodge because she was throwing a punch.

He managed to avoid most of her hits—only because she was going easy on him, as she often reminded him—and reared up to get his arms around her back. Then he hooked his foot around her leg, shifted his grip to her arm, and rolled them until he was on top.

“Can I talk now?” he asked, exasperated.

Natasha stared up at him, one eyebrow arched. “That was passable,” she said. “Break for five minutes.”

Bucky clambered up and then held out a hand for her, which prompted another eyebrow raise as she got up in her usual graceful manner.

“I’ll be back,” she said, as she turned toward the door. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Bucky gave her a lazy salute. When he turned, Steve was giving him a hopeful smile. “You’re getting better,” he said, tossing Bucky a water.

“Nice try,” Bucky said. “You’re not getting off the hook that easy.”

Steve groaned and flopped back onto the stack of mats he was perched on. He threw an arm over his eyes, because he was a drama queen. “I didn’t have _time_ to get a parachute, Buck,” he moaned, without looking up.

Bucky sat down next to Steve and sighed, slumping a little. He was silent as he took a long drink of water, during which he noticed Steve peeking up at him from around his arm.

“Look,” Bucky said, setting his water down between his thighs. “I get that your job’s dangerous, but there’s risky and then there’s _reckless_ , y’know? I mean, Christ—you don’t have to _prove_ anything, Steve. Not to me, not to _anyone_.”

Steve had a strange expression on his face. Before he could speak, Bucky held up a hand. “I know I have no right to ask this, but... please be more careful. You don’t have to stop jumping off buildings, just keep a parachute handy, okay? Please.”

Steve sat up. He was watching Bucky, still with that strange expression on his face. “Okay,” he said, after a pause. “Okay.”

Bucky looked at him, surprised. “Really? Just like that?”

Steve nodded, looking down at his hands now. They were folded in his lap. Bucky watched him: it was clear that Steve was working up the nerve to say something, though what he had to be nervous about was beyond—

“It’s just,” Steve started, hesitating. “I’ve never... had anyone to worry before.”

Bucky felt his heart break a little.

“There was my mom,” Steve continued, still staring down at his hands. “But she died, pretty early on. When I was twelve. My dad died in the—in World War I. So they sent me to an orphanage, and I just... grew up alone.”

Bucky laid a hand on Steve’s arm, just a light touch. “That’s awful,” he murmured.

Steve gave a loose shrug, like he didn’t have the energy for a real one. “I survived,” he said. “I met Dr. Erskine, met Peggy—” His voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat. “Got the serum. Then I fought, I died, and now I’m here.”

Bucky’s grip on Steve’s forearm tightened a little. “That’s awful,” he said again. “And—and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But...” He hesitated, and Steve glanced up at him. “I’m glad I got to meet you. I hate what you went through to get here, but I’m glad you are. Here.”

“Me too, Buck,” Steve said. He was smiling, and it only looked a little painful.

God, all these emotions were giving Bucky hives.

He suppressed a shiver and hopped off the mats, then turned to give Steve a cocky grin. “Well, now that _that’s_ out of the way...”

Steve was watching him, smile soft but still there. “Yes?”

“I think we should spar.”

There was a pause. “Really.”

“Yep.” Bucky bounced a little, hopping from foot to foot to warm himself up. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ve learned enough that I can— _oof!_ ”

Steve cut him off by barreling into him. He had ducked low and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist, knocking Bucky off his feet and sending both of them to the floor. It was the same sequence he’d been practicing with Natasha, but having Steve pressing him down onto the mat was... different. It took Bucky a moment to get his bearings.

Steve grinned down at him, not bothering with the light punches Natasha had thrown. Bucky was having trouble getting his breath back, and somehow he didn’t think it was because of Steve’s weight on his chest.

After a moment, Bucky found his equilibrium and was able to grapple with Steve and yank him down, pin his leg and his arm, then twist them until Bucky was on top with Steve’s legs on either side of his waist.

Bucky was panting a little: it wasn’t the easiest sequence to begin with, and Steve was _heavy_. His breath slowed, though, as he stared down at Steve. He was kneeling between the other man’s legs, one hand one the mat by Steve’s head, the other pressed against Steve’s chest.

Steve himself was staring up at Bucky, looking a little dumbstruck. He opened his mouth and drew a breath, but he didn’t speak, just let out a shaky exhale and licked his lips.

Bucky leaned down a little, barely conscious of what he was doing. “Steve...”

“Buck—”

“Oh, wow, okay.”

Bucky shot up and scrambled off of Steve, whirling to face the newcomer. He was a stocky blonde, with a bandage across the bridge of his nose and a bow slung over one shoulder.

He made an uncomfortable face when he and Bucky made eye contact, bringing a hand up in a short wave. “Hi,” he said. “This is awkward.”

Bucky glanced back at Steve, who was sitting up behind him. “Hey, Clint,” he said, and did he sound frustrated?

“People think I don’t have a superpower, but it’s actually bad timing,” Clint said, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck.

Bucky let out a desperate little laugh. He found himself praying Natasha would make one of her timely arrivals, which she did a moment later.

She strode into the room, a fresh towel slung around her neck, and smacked the back of Clint’s head as she passed him, muttering something Bucky couldn’t hear.

“Aw, Nat,” Clint whined, rubbing the back of his head anew. “There’s no need for violence.”

“There’s always a need for violence with you,” she said over her shoulder.

She came to a stop in front of Bucky and looked between him and Steve, then rolled her eyes. “Idiots, all of you,” she said. She pulled the towel from her neck and threw it at Bucky, hitting him in the face. “Get yourself cleaned up. I changed my mind, we’re done for the day.”

Bucky pulled the towel down and started wiping his neck. “Why?” he asked, willing himself to act casual.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “And sore. And you’ve obviously got this sequence down pat.”

Bucky felt himself flush. “Right,” he said, “okay.” He slung the towel around his neck, gripping either end. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

-

Fifteen minutes saw the four of them—Clint had insisted on tagging along, since his “aim couldn’t really get any better”—in front of a wild-looking food truck a couple blocks away from the Triskelion. Its paint job was obviously some kind of acid-heavy ode to New Orleans and jazz, done up with bright eye-catching colors. Bucky was a little surprised to find that he liked it.

It was run by a man named Jimmy Boudreaux, who was a “born and bred Cajun, _cher_ ,” and his wife, Adelaide, who was from New Orleans. Apparently Natasha was a regular at the food truck—which surprised Bucky because he didn’t think Natasha was predictable about _anything_ —and knew Jimmy pretty well.

According to Natasha, his first order from the truck _had_ to be a po’ boy—which Steve and Clint both backed her up on—so Bucky ordered an oyster po’ boy with fries. Clint ordered a shrimp po’ boy, and Steve and Natasha both got chicken and andouille gumbo. Bucky and Clint split the fries, since the sandwiches were frankly massive, and Bucky traded Steve a bite of his sandwich for a spoonful of the gumbo.

“Ohm’god,” he said around a piece of sausage. He swallowed, then continued, “I’m never eating anywhere else.”

He held his sandwich out to Steve, who took it and took another bite, then watched as Bucky pulled out his phone to take a picture of the truck. Then he turned and snapped a picture of Natasha and Clint, neither of whom were paying attention. The result was kind of hilarious: Natasha was in the middle of bringing her spoon to her mouth, but Clint had just taken a bite of his sandwich and it made his cheek bulge out like a chipmunk’s.

Natasha shot him a dark look—she had a thing about pictures of her—but Clint shrugged.

Bucky turned to Steve, who handed him his sandwich. “C’mon, I wanna get a picture of us,” he said. He crowded close to Steve, who wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and brought the phone up to take the shot.

It was a good picture. A really good one. They were both grinning, pressed close together for the shot even though there was plenty of empty space around them. Steve’s hair looked even brighter in the photo than it did in person, and the smile on his face was so big it looked painful.

Bucky put all three of the pictures on Instagram. (“You can upload it,” Natasha said. “But watch yourself.”) Then he made the one of him and Steve the background on his phone.

At Steve’s amused look, he said, “Okay, it’s not you picking your nose, but it’s cute, all right?”

Clint gave them a strange look. “I’m not even gonna ask,” he said, shaking his head.

Steve just smiled.

 -

> _America’s favorite star-spangled romance is still going strong!_
> 
> _Earlier this afternoon, Bucky Barnes uploaded pictures to Instagram which seem to indicate that he and Steve Rogers were on a double date – with Hawkeye and Black Widow!_
> 
> _The group appears to have gotten food at a DC food truck called “The Cajunator.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr is [here](http://non-prophet.tumblr.com/), if you're interested!


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Steve asked, looking at Bucky from the passenger seat.

“If I _told_ you, it wouldn’t be a _surprise_ ,” Bucky said, signaling to change lanes for the exit onto VA-267. “Just be patient.”

In his peripheral, Bucky saw Steve roll his eyes and cross his arms over his chest. He looked like a little kid who hadn’t gotten the toy he’d wanted for Christmas.

Bucky grinned. “All right, fine,” he conceded. “I’ll give you a hint.”

He started humming “As Time Goes By,” tapping a finger along the steering wheel in time, and watched Steve out of the corner of his eye. He saw the moment Steve got it, face lighting up. The next moment, however, his face crumpled in confusion.

“That doesn’t tell me where we’re _going_ ,” Steve said, almost a whine. “That’s not a real hint, I want another one.”

“Nope. You get one hint, that’s it. It’s not my fault you can’t figure it out.”

Steve shot him a look, but Bucky didn’t take his eyes off the road, just hummed a little louder.

It wasn’t long before they neared their destination, and the sterile concrete of the highway opened into the lush greenery of Northern Virginia.

In his periphery, Bucky saw Steve’s confusion mount. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Steve looked a little freaked out by the change in scenery.

At that, a thought popped into Bucky’s head. “Hey, if you get bit by a mosquito, does the mosquito turn into like, a super-mosquito?”

Steve looked at him.

“Like a super-soldier mosquito.”

No response.

“What? It’s a valid question.”

“It’s really not,” Steve said, but then continued: “And I have no idea. I hope not. That sounds horrible.”

“You could be the catalyst for a whole new species of super-mosquitos,” Bucky said. He glanced at Steve just in time to see the other man roll his eyes. “I’m serious! You need to take this more seriously and double-down on your bug spray application.”

Steve muttered something that might have been, “Not unless you’re offering to help.”

Before Bucky could really process that, they were cut off by a car pivoting into the next lane without using a signal.

“Hey!” Bucky yelled, laying on the horn. “Fuckin’ asshole. This is why I hate driving.”

“Whose car is this, now that you mention it?” Steve asked.

“My dad’s,” Bucky muttered.

He could see Steve look at him in surprise. “Your dad?”

“That’s what I said,” Bucky drawled, forcing himself to conjure up a casual tone.

There was a pause, like Steve was hesitant. “You’ve never mentioned him,” he prompted.

Bucky let out a harsh laugh. “That’s because I don’t think about him very often,” he said. “Mostly when I see him. Which is usually on the ten o’clock news, where they’re talking about his latest telenovela girlfriend or who he cheated on her with.”

Steve was silent. Bucky didn’t look over. His father wasn’t a comfortable subject for him, and he tended to get cynical—or worse, emotional—when he talked about him. “He’s always happy to let me borrow a car, though,” Bucky said. “Well, now that I’m not an active cokehead.”

Steve didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Silence fell, not quite uncomfortable but something close to it. Before too long, however, the sign Bucky was looking for came into view and he took the exit to merge onto Trap Road.

He wasn’t sure whether Steve took real notice of the signs, as they neared their destination, but he’d guess not, given how confused the other man still looked when they pulled into the permit-only parking lot.

“We’re in the woods,” Steve said, as Bucky turned off the car.

“Yes,” Bucky confirmed. He got out and stretched, watched as Steve did the same, then opened the rear door to get his coat with their tickets in it.

“Are we going hiking?” Steve asked, doubt evident in his tone as he eyed Bucky’s jeans and combat boots.

Bucky gave him a look that said _please_. “Do I seem like the hiking type?” Bucky asked, slipping on the jacket.

“I’m gonna be diplomatic for once, and not answer that.”

Bucky snorted. “We’ll make a politician out of you yet.”

Again Steve didn’t reply, just followed Bucky as he started off across the gravel toward the nearest path. It was a bit of a walk to get to where they were going, but Bucky didn’t mind. Half an hour was hardly a long drive, but it was still nice to stretch his legs, and the weather was slowly getting warmer.

It wasn’t long before they reached the central part of the park, where Bucky checked them in and verified their seats.

Steve was looking around in surprise and confusion, though he didn’t look upset. “Is this an outdoor theater?” he asked, like his Brooklyn-bred mind couldn’t even comprehend such a thing.

Bucky grinned. “Yep,” he said. “And we, my friend, have seats on the second floor. Let’s go.”

People had already begun to take their seats, both in the theater and on the grass in the back. Steve had a baseball cap sat low on his head, and Bucky almost wished he’d done the same. His hair looked too good for that, though, so he settled for slipping on his sunglasses and hoping no one would recognize them.

They headed up to their seats, Steve following again, which were on the upper tier overlooking the stage. There wasn’t really anything that could be considered premium seating in the center, but Bucky had done his best and gotten them two seats in the balcony front row.

There was a blank projector screen hanging over the stage in front of them. Below it, there were several rows of chairs and music stands arranged around a conductor’s stand.

It was about fifteen minutes before their show was due to start, so they angled in toward one another and made conversation as the rest of the audience trickled in.

Five minutes before show-time, there was a small, “Excuse me,” from over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky saw Steve glance up, even as he himself turned.

It was a young girl, clutching a pamphlet to her chest. She couldn’t have been more than seven. Behind her there was another girl, this one a teenager, looking at them curiously.

“Excuse me,” the little girl said again. “Are you Captain America?”

Bucky looked back at Steve, who was smiling at her kindly.

“Yeah,” said Steve, “I am. What’s your name?”

“Cassie,” she replied shyly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Cassie,” he said, reaching across Bucky to shake her hand. “Would you like me to sign that?”

She looked down at the pamphlet like she’d forgotten it was there. “Yes, please,” she said. “I wanna be you when I grow up.”

Okay, Bucky wasn’t really a kid person but that was _fucking adorable_.

Steve’s resulting smile wasn’t half-bad either. “Thanks, Cassie,” he said, taking the pamphlet. The other girl handed him a pen. “I bet you’d be an even better Captain America than me.”

Cassie, who was bright red by now, shook her head so rapidly that her hair flipped back and forth across her face. “No way,” she said. “You’re the _best_ Captain America.”

Bucky thought _Steve_ might have been blushing at that. He was also giving Bucky a considering look, since he’d clearly noticed the event on the front of the pamphlet.

“Do you have a superhero name?” Steve asked, handing her the autograph.

“Captain Cassie!” she said, jumping a little.

“That’s a great superhero name,” Steve said, grinning. After handing her the autograph, his hand had fallen to rest on Bucky’s thigh, down by the knee. Bucky was very aware of the weight and heat of it, as well as the heat steadily creeping up his neck.

The older girl put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. “I think the show’s about to start, Cas,” she said, giving them a smile. “We should probably head back.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Cassie said, a little of her shyness coming back. She took the other girl’s hand, but they didn’t leave at once.

The older girl was looking at them. “Are you two...?” She trailed off, pointing at Bucky.

Steve’s arm left Bucky’s knee and came up to rest along the seat at Bucky’s back. “It was nice to meet you,” Steve said, smile still firmly in place.

Thankfully, the older girl took the hint and steered Cassie, who was waving wildly, back to their seats. The lights dimmed. Steve’s arm stayed put, burning a long line of heat into Bucky’s back.

He felt Steve lean in. “So we’re seeing Casablanca, huh?”

When Bucky turned to face him, Steve was much closer than he’d expected. Bucky felt his throat go dry, and he wiped his palms on his jeans. “Yeah,” he managed, after a pause. “You said it was your favorite.”

“It is,” Steve said, and was he staring at Bucky’s mouth? Bucky licked his lips compulsively, and Steve’s eyes darkened.

But before... anything, whatever, _something_ could happen, the opening strains of the movie started, accompanied by the National Symphony Orchestra playing below.

Steve sat back in his seat and turned his attention to the movie, though his arm stayed a long line against Bucky’s back.

Bucky wasn’t sure whether he was irritated or relieved. On the one hand, he was pretty sure Steve had been about to kiss him; on the other hand, he was pretty sure _Steve_ had been about to _kiss him_.

The interruption was probably a blessing in disguise, no matter how much Bucky hated it in that very moment.

He took a deep breath and tried to shake off the last of his arousal, turning his own focus to the movie as well, as the opening credits ended with a swell of orchestral music.

_“With the coming of the second World War, many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully or desperately toward the freedom of the Americas....”_

-

The walk back to the car was quiet. Steve seemed... contemplative, almost subdued, and Bucky wasn’t faring much better.

Bucky didn’t regret taking Steve to see it, not exactly. But it was a bittersweet movie, and if _Bucky_ could say that, it was probably ten times worse for Steve.

“Was this a bad idea?”

Steve glanced at him. Bucky avoided his eyes by buckling his seatbelt and starting the car.

“No,” Steve said. “Why do you think that?”

Bucky couldn’t detect any dishonesty in his tone, but he still felt uneasy. He twisted to look out the rear window as he backed out of their spot, letting the crunch of the gravel beneath the tires fill the silence as he thought.

“It’s not a very happy movie,” he said finally, signaling as he turned back onto Trap Road.

He saw Steve shrug out of the corner of his eye. “So?”

Bucky shrugged, feeling strangely uneven, like none of his words were coming out quite how he wanted. He let the silence stretch between them, filling the empty silence of the car. To Bucky, the quiet seemed almost painfully obvious, but Steve hardly seemed to notice. He was staring out his window, chin propped up by the arm resting on the ridge of his door.

Bucky turned on the radio. It was set to NPR, and Bucky scowled to find that they were discussing the upcoming election. He switched it to an oldies station—well, oldies was probably relative in this case—and turned the volume down. The low hum of the music carried them through the 30-minute drive back to DC.

Steve made a surprised noise when Bucky pulled up outside his apartment. “We’re back already?” Steve said, sitting up. “Wow, that went by fast.”

Bucky hummed, still feeling off-kilter and unsure how to reply. He wiped his hands down his denim-clad thighs, resisting the urge to pull his NA coin out and fiddle with it.

“You okay?” Steve asked, slipping off his seat belt. “You seem a little...” He trailed off, gesturing in a way that probably meant ‘weird and kind of creepy.’

Bucky shook his head. “Yeah, m’fine. Just worn out. Not used to driving anymore.”

Steve made a sympathetic noise. His hand came to rest on the back of the driver’s seat, just over Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky’s eyes drifted down the long expanse of Steve’s arm until he met Steve’s gaze.

“Thanks for this,” Steve said, a sweet smile denting one side of his mouth. “I’m really glad we did this.”

Bucky swallowed, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. “Sure,” he managed. He felt distinctly nervous. A million different neurons were firing inside his head, trying to parse the situation: the weird mood hanging between them, Steve’s hand over his shoulder, that smile and the little dimple accenting it, the way Steve was leaning forward, leaning in to—

It was pretty obvious, in hindsight. If Bucky had been on top of his game, he’d have realized where the situation was headed the moment Steve’s hand landed on top of his seat.

As it was, Bucky was taken entirely by surprise when Steve kissed him.

He sucked in a short breath, stiffening even as one hand came up to—what? To pull Steve in, push him away? He didn’t know, he had no _idea_ what he was doing or what he wanted, and what if Steve was just—

Steve faltered, maybe at the stiff set of Bucky’s shoulders or the harsh stutter of his breath, and started to pull back.

Without conscious thought, Bucky found himself dragging Steve forward, deepening the kiss even as he realized his hand had already twined in Steve’s hair.

Steve let out a shuddering breath of his own, surging forward as Bucky licked into his mouth, savoring the slick slide of their tongues and the whisper of Steve’s eyelashes against his cheek. Soon both his hands were cradling Bucky’s head, so light he might as well have been cupping glass between his palms.

Bucky hardly knew what was going through his head at that moment. All he knew was _good, fuck, Steve, wet, **more**_ , and then he felt Steve easing away from him and it was like his brain clicked back on.

Steve’s eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. Even as he pulled back, he was staring at Bucky’s mouth.

“Well,” he said, and now _Bucky_ was staring at _his_ mouth.

“Well,” Bucky echoed, pulling back to run a hand through his hair.

One of Steve’s hands fell—Bucky glanced away when he realized Steve was subtly adjusting himself, holy shit, Bucky made Captain American _need to adjust his junk_ —but the other stayed propped against Bucky’s seat.

Steve took a breath, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut as Steve said _exactly_ what he expected.

“Do you—want to—?”

“I should probably head back home,” Bucky blurted, turning to grab the steering wheel. “It’s getting late and I need to... water my... plants.”

What the fuck?

There was a soft snort from Steve’s side of the car, but when Bucky chanced a glance at Steve from the corner of his eye, he didn’t look angry or dismissive. Just accepting and maybe a little amused.

“All right,” he said, easing off. Bucky felt a wave of relief wash over him that Steve’s tone was light and easy and lacking any dark corners. “Can I text you? Tomorrow?”

Bucky blinked. “Yeah, of course.”

Steve shot him another smile and just looked at him for a moment. Then, he turned and climbed out of the car, graceful as ever. When he reached the door of his building, he turned again and gave Bucky a little wave.

Bucky threw one back, managing a smile before he put the car in ‘drive’ and sped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been to Wolf Trap in several years, but if you ever find yourself in the Northern Virginia/DC area, you should definitely go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you guys hanging for a literal year. Funny story, I actually had this chapter mostly finished three months ago, but then I went to Europe and left my computer without any way to access the file, so...yeah. But I'm here now! With another cliffhanger. Hopefully I won't take another year to resolve this one.
> 
> Also, I realized while writing this that Bucky is inconsistent about keeping kosher in this story, which is because I myself do not, in fact, keep kosher. I'll probably fix that when I go back and make some minor grammatical edits. Also also, my politics nerd side came out while writing this, so be warned. The scene in question actually was a bit longer at first, but then I figured you probably aren't here for me waxing political so I cut it.
> 
> Anyway, before we get started --
> 
>  **WARNING : There is some kind of iffy consent in this chapter**, in that there's no active discussion of what's going on, but I think it's fairly minor and there's no genuinely explicit content in this chapter/story, so I wasn't sure it warranted a tag. But please be aware, and if you'd like to skip, just go from "It was dark and quiet..." to "Bucky woke..."

The next morning, pictures of their kiss were _everywhere_.

Bucky hadn’t even realized there had been paparazzi outside Steve’s apartment, let alone that they’d taken _pictures_. And they were certainly stimulating pictures, at that. If Bucky were letting himself think about the kiss, which he quite studiously was not, he might have even saved one or two of them. And hidden them deep within a series of increasingly boring subfolders buried in the bowels of his hard drive.

But he wasn't thinking about it, so obviously he hadn't done that. Because that would be counterproductive in the extreme.

Rather than dwell on that, he opened his phone and shot Steve a text: _super soldier vision came in handy huh?_ It took Steve a couple minutes to reply.

 **STEVE:** What?

 **BUCKY:** last night w/ the kiss

 **STEVE:** What does that have to do with my vision?

 **BUCKY:** I’m just impressed you caught the camera, I didn’t see one

Bucky knew Steve hadn't seen the camera. Even if he'd been blind to it at the time, Steve's intentions had been painfully clear last night and, in hindsight, it was obvious his interest had been sincere. But Bucky was giving him an out, because this was a bad idea and Steve had to know that. He  _had_ to. And even if  _Steve_ didn't know it,  _Bucky_ did.

When Steve hadn’t replied after a few minutes, Bucky turned on an audiobook and hopped on the treadmill. Half an hour later, a new text interrupted the narration.

 **STEVE** : Ha, right. Paparazzi.

 **STEVE** : Do you wanna come to New York for a movie night?

Bucky typed in his passcode to reveal their text thread, just in time for Steve’s next message to come in: _Assuming there aren’t any major catastrophes_. Bucky bit his lip lightly as he ran, considering. It wasn't exactly an 'okay, I got the message' kind of response, but Steve had to at least realize Bucky wanted him to back off, right? 

 **BUCKY** **:** sure

 **BUCKY:** so you’re in NY?

 **STEVE:** Yeah, for the rest of the week. Doing Avengers press. Quinjet picked me up this morning.

 **BUCKY:** so no coffee this week?

 **STEVE:** Not unless you come up to NY

Bucky stepped onto the bars at either end of the track, taking a moment to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat off his face with a towel.

 **BUCKY:** do you want me to come up?

 **STEVE:** I did just invite you to come up for a movie

 **BUCKY:** smartass. what movie btw?

 **STEVE:** Miss Congeniality. Apparently Sam really is horrified that I haven’t seen it. He says he’s been slacking

 **BUCKY:** tsk tsk

 **STEVE:** I know

Bucky stepped back onto the track and started running again. He left his headphones out, instead using the remote he’d stashed in the cup holder to turn on CNN.

 **STEVE:** So are you gonna come up for coffee?

 **BUCKY:** dunno, when?

 **STEVE:** Tomorrow? Before the movie?

His mother’s name pulled his attention away from his phone, to the TV. A news anchor was on the screen, with a split-picture of Bucky’s mother and Alexander Pierce in the corner.

_“...in next year’s general election. Alexander Pierce announced today that he will be running against President Barnes in the upcoming primaries, citing the president’s low approval ratings as his motivation. Despite a recent increase in popularity, the president is still struggling...”_

His phone buzzing was a welcome interruption from the newscaster’s spiel. Bucky was gritting his teeth so hard they ached. Pierce was such a prick.

 **STEVE:** Just want some one on one time before introducing you to everybody

He stared down at his phone.

 **BUCKY:** ok. I can be there by 5 tomorrow night

 **STEVE:** Great. I’ll see you then :)

Bucky gave Pierce’s picture one last glare, then switched off the TV and went to pack a bag.

-

By the time the private plane touched down in New York the next day, Bucky’s bad mood had faded into a dull fizzle of irritation lurking at the back of his mind. His mood improved even further at the sight of Steve waiting for him on the tarmac, wearing a leather jacket and leaning back against his bike like he thought he was James fucking Dean or some shit.

“Hey, hotshot,” Bucky called, trotting down the rollaway staircase with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Nice duds. You got someone you’re trying to impress?”

“Maybe. Got any tips?”

Bucky slowed as he reached Steve, then brought a lip up to tap against his lip as he pretended to think. “Have you tried being less insanely handsome? I’ve heard women hate that.”

Steve laughed, but his smile slipped a little. He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to shake himself. “Do you keep kosher?”

“What?” Bucky asked, thrown by the change in subject. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“C’mon, I have something I wanna show you.”

-

The thing Steve wanted to show him turned out to be a small coffee shop nestled into the corner of a larger building. It was called Petite Shell, and it had huge floor-to-ceiling windows that made up its street-facing walls. The inside was very modern and _very_ crowded, but Steve was able to finagle them a couple of seats by giving a pair of students his best aw-shucks grin. They drained their coffee and left, leaving Steve and Bucky with a small high-top table and a pair of stools.

“You want your usual?” Steve asked, laying his jacket over his stool.

“Sure,” Bucky said, taking a seat at the table.

He pulled out his phone while Steve headed up to the counter, flicking through different apps. When he glanced up at Steve to check on his progress, the other man was standing in the not-inconsiderable line, staring up at the menu with his hands on his hips. His posture made his pants pull tight across his ass, emphasizing its shape.

Snickering, Bucky took a quick picture with his phone and uploaded it to Instagram with the caption _Hello_. He showed it to Steve when he got back, who turned an adorable shade of red and threw a little brown bag at Bucky.

“So this place keeps kosher, huh?” Bucky said, opening the bag to find several croissants tucked inside.

“Yeah,” Steve said as he took a seat. He set a pair of to-go cups down on the table, sliding one toward Bucky. “I’m not sure how many coffee shops _aren’t_ kosher, but I thought it’d be nice to take you here anyway.”

Bucky gave him a little smile, prying the lid off his cup and taking a sip. “It is nice, thanks.” He broke one of the croissants in half and handed part of it to Steve. “Here.”

Steve shot him a smile. “So,” he said after a while, licking the remnants of the croissant from his fingers, “what’s new?”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “Since yesterday?”

“Sure.”

“Well.” Bucky drew the word out, stretching it as he considered whether to give Steve a glimpse of the wretched political miasma surrounding his family. Hell, he decided, Steve was already involved; he might as well get full disclosure. “Pierce announced he’s contesting my mom for the nomination.”

“Is that a big deal?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, slathering butter over a croissant. He tended to eat when he was stressed—well, now that he couldn’t do cocaine. “You don’t see in-party opposition during a re-election year. I mean, it’s _happened_ —there was Reagan and Ford in ‘76, and Carter and Kennedy in 1980—but no one’s ever actually won over an incumbent.

“Unfortunately for my mother, and the reason it’s such a big deal, is that the incumbent who’s challenged by someone in their own party usually goes on to _lose_ in the general election. So even if Pierce doesn’t get the nomination—which, I don’t think he will, but ma disagrees—it’s still a serious kick in the ass to my mom’s campaign.”

When he looked up, Steve was staring at him. “What?” Bucky asked, shoving a section of croissant into his mouth.

“Why haven’t you gone into politics?” Steve asked.

Bucky snorted. “Because I hate politics.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“You’re confusing talent with enthusiasm,” Bucky said, swallowing the mass of croissant. “I’m _good_ at this stuff, but I hate politics and I hate politicians.”

“Even your mom?”

Bucky hesitated. “I love my mother,” he said, after a beat. “But President Elaine Barnes? Not so much. Ma as _ma_ is one thing, but as a politician, she’s not unique. She has good intentions and she wants to make a difference, but politics is a dirty business and I’ve never met anyone who came out of it smelling like roses.”

Steve nodded as he seemed to process that. “So this thing with Pierce, how are you gonna get past that?”

“Not much we can do to get _past_ it,” Bucky said, blowing out a breath. “He’s publicly announced he’s going to run. All we can do is keep working on ma’s numbers and try to woo as many superdelegates as we can.”

“And how do you do that?”

“By schmoozing,” Bucky replied, rolling his eyes. “Also known as the reason I hate politics. Or the main one, at least.”

“You seem like a natural-born schmoozer to me,” Steve said, mouth quirking up at the edges.

“I know you meant that as a compliment,” Bucky said, “so I’m gonna let it slide.”

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Well, thank god.” He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “We should probably head back if we wanna make it in time for the movie.”

Bucky nodded and pressed the lid back onto his coffee. “We’re bringing those croissants with us.”

-

Stark Tower looked exactly the same as Bucky remembered, right down to the bored-looking security guard who scanned Steve’s ID and let them inside.

But this time, the sleek glass elevator opened onto a wide, sprawling common room rather than the hallway to Helen’s office. Natasha, Clint, and several people Bucky only recognized from the news were scattered throughout the room; they looked up as the elevator announced its arrival in cool, British tones.

“Bucky! Hey, man—no, Lucky, no!”

That was all the warning Bucky had before he was nearly bowled over by a huge, enthusiastic dog, who looked Bucky straight in the eye, gave a pleased _woof_ , and started licking Bucky’s face with happy abandon.

Bucky sputtered as the dog was pulled off him.

“Dude, why does his breath smell like pizza?” he asked, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face.

Clint looked guilty. “He’s a growing boy.”

“Ignore him,” Nat said, stepping smoothly past Clint and grabbing Bucky’s arm. “We have wine, beer, and every kind of soda known to man. Preference?”

“Soda,” Bucky said, glancing back to see Steve giving the dog a belly rub. The dog was on his back now, with a look of absolute bliss on his face, tongue lolling. “Anything’s fine.”

Nat slid her hand down to the crook of his elbow, then tugged him over to the seating area set up in the middle of the room. There were a pair of coolers sitting on two coffee tables, which were in turn flanked by several huge, cushy couches and armchairs.

Bucky plucked out a Sprite and a beer, tossing the latter toward Steve before opening the former and taking a long sip. He watched Natasha pull a beer out for herself, eyeing it with no small amount of envy.

Christ, but he missed beer. He’d never thought he liked it all that much until he couldn’t have it anymore.

Some addicts could get away with having a drink every now and again without utterly blowing their recovery. Bucky was not one of those addicts. Pretty much anything that served to lower inhibition was a bad idea for him, he’d come to realize, and alcohol was at the top of his list for that, right next to cocaine.

He pondered that as he stared at Stark’s lavish bar, not five goddamn feet from where he was standing. Life could really be a bitch sometimes.

_THUNK!_

Bucky let out an extremely undignified noise as he toppled forward, one hand going up to cradle the back of his head—at which Natasha had just _thrown_ a _glass fucking bottle_.

“What the fuck, Natasha?” Bucky snarled, squatting down to pick up the offending item. “Are you _trying_ to give me a goddamn concussion?”

Nat lay along the back of the couch with an easy, sinuous grace, not unlike a cat’s. A smug, self-satisfied cat. “Testing your reflexes, more like,” she said. “Stop _brooding_. If you get any more _Byronic_ , I’ll have to fetch the smelling salts.”

There was a low laugh from behind Bucky. “I’d pay good money to see Steve swoon like a Gothic heroine.”

Bucky turned, irritated retort at the ready, but it vanished before it could leave his mouth. He swallowed and cleared his throat a little hoarsely, then held out a hand to the _very_ attractive man standing in front of him. “Bucky,” he said, gesturing at himself with his Sprite. “Hi.”

The man cocked an eyebrow, but took his hand just the same. “I’m Sam,” he said easily. “And I know who you are. It’d be a bit embarrassing if I didn’t, all things considered.”

“All things considered?”

“Cap’s told me enough about you I could probably write your unofficial biography,” Sam said. “What I didn’t already know from the papers, at least.”

Bucky cringed a little. “I’d tell you it was all lies, but…well…”

Sam laughed and shrugged. “I’m not judging you, man. I mean, Steve fell for you, so clearly you can’t be that bad,” he joked.

Bucky nearly cringed again, but instead managed to pull out a smile. “Ha, yeah.”

“Hey!”

Bucky turned to find Tony Stark less than a foot away from his face. He let out a manly, dignified squawk and staggered back into a brick wall. Or Steve’s chest, he realized after the other man’s scent hit him: fresh laundry detergent and cheap shampoo, with a lingering, musky base note that was pure Steve. It was probably a bad sign how the smell of it could calm Bucky’s nerves in an instant, but he ignored that thought to refocus on the raving lunatic in front of him.

“I’m sensing some bad juju vibes over here, and those are off-limits for movie nights.”

“Since when?” Steve asked. Bucky didn’t have to turn to know he was smiling. “Last week, you and Clint spent half an hour debating the ending of Inception, and it only ended when you got _shot with an arrow_.”

“Aw, c’mon,” said Clint, “it was only a _little_ one.”

“It didn’t feel little! I still have a hole in my thigh!”

“You liar! There’s no way it hasn’t healed by now!”

“What, you want me to prove it?”

“Aaaand that’s enough of that.” Steve grasped Bucky’s shoulders and turned him, steering them toward the kitchen. “This is usually the part where Tony’s pants come off.”

“You make it sound so routine,” Bucky said.

“That’s because it is,” Steve replied. “There are four rules to movie night: one, we always order pizza; two, movie choices rotate; three, Tony takes his pants off; and four, we don’t talk about Titanic.”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him. “I don’t even wanna know,” he said.

“You really don’t.”

They were in the kitchen now, and apparently “we always order pizza” meant “we buy out at least two pizza places,” because there were approximately fifty pizza boxes stacked on the counter.

“What, no breadsticks?” Bucky asked, turning to smirk at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Tony ordered a couple from this kosher place a couple blocks away. Hopefully it won’t suck, but if it does I can make you pasta or something.”

“So I’m not good enough for your boiled cabbage?” Bucky asked, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter and grabbing a paper plate. “I think I’m offended.”

A couple weeks ago, they’d spent one memorable afternoon with Steve describing to Bucky all the various foodstuffs he’d eaten back in the ‘30s. He’d gotten _far_ too much enjoyment out of Bucky’s horrified reactions.

“I’m not sure Tony has any cabbage,” Steve said, utterly dead-pan. “Maybe I can whip up some lard oatmeal, though.”

Bucky mimed gagging as he extracted a slice of pizza from one of the boxes. “Okay, I give. You’re always going to win at that.” Bucky reached out with his foot and prodded Steve’s side. “Though I maintain that using Depression-era recipes is cheating.”

He went to poke him again, but Steve’s hand shot out and grabbed his foot before he could make contact. “I’m sorry the timing of my childhood is inconvenient for you,” Steve said in a dry tone. “I’ll fix that right away.”

“See that you do.” Bucky took a bite of his pizza. “Hey, this is pretty good.”

Steve didn’t reply, and Bucky only realized Steve was still holding his foot when the other man slid his hand up until he was grasping Bucky’s bare ankle under his jeans.

Bucky froze; he stopped chewing, stopped _breathing_ , but kept his eyes on his plate.

Was it weird that the ankle thing was kind of working for him? Steve’s hands were soft, and he kept brushing the pad of his thumb across the sensitive span of skin behind the inner joint.

Bucky was so focused on the sensation, and on not showing just how that sensation affected him, that he hardly noticed Steve stepping closer. At least, not until Steve was standing close enough for Bucky to feel the heat coming off him—and to get another whiff of that damned scent. It was a good thing he was sitting down, because his knees had just turned to jelly.

“It’s good, huh?” Steve said, and was Bucky imagining it, or was his voice lower? “Maybe I’ll try some.” He reached past Bucky to get a plate, leaning into the vee of Bucky’s thighs and pulling Bucky’s leg around his waist.

Then he released his grip on Bucky’s leg and moved it to his hip, slipping his fingers under Bucky’s shirt so he could skim them along the top of his jeans.

Bucky swallowed hard, his breath leaving him on a noisy, jagged exhale before he could stop it. Steve looked up at him, so close their noses were almost touching. The look on Steve’s face was heavy and intent; his eyes were half-lidded, darting back and forth between Bucky’s eyes and his mouth. Bucky let out another shaky exhale and leaned forward incrementally, tilting his face toward Steve’s.

He shouldn’t—he _really_ shouldn’t—but he could feel Steve’s heat, could smell that earthy undertone, could remember the way Steve’s lips had felt on his…

Then Clint slammed into the kitchen, yelling something about “melodramatic shellheads,” and Bucky heard Steve left out a soft curse.

Before he could blink, Steve had snatched up a piece of pizza and drawn back to lean against the opposite counter.

It didn’t make a difference, though. Maybe it was Bucky’s struck-dumb expression, or maybe Clint really was as observant as his alias implied, because he glanced between them once and threw up his hands. “I interrupted a moment, didn’t I?” he asked—well, yelled, really. “I’m telling you—bad timing!”

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the kitchen, yelling, “Nat! I’m rebranding!” He slammed the door again, leaving a wave of awkward tension in his wake.

Bucky shoved half his slice into his mouth before he could say something stupid—or _do_ something even _stupider_ , like _kiss Steve_.

Steve was watching him, a contemplative expression on his face. When he opened his mouth to speak, Bucky hopped off the counter and turned to grab another piece of pizza. “Movie time,” Bucky slurred around the pizza in his mouth, then he high-tailed it out of the kitchen and took a seat next to Nat.

Of course, Steve then came and sat next to him, but whatever. At least he wasn’t sitting in Bucky’s lap or some shit.

He wasn’t even touching him, actually. There were a solid two inches between them on the couch, and Bucky had to repress a scowl at how wrong that felt.

He took a large bite of pizza, reminding himself that he didn’t _want_ a relationship right now because he was “relearning how to live life sober,” like they talked about in rehab. But sober people had relationships, didn’t they? Forming relationships, healthy relationships, _was_ a part of learning to live life sober.

And their relationship might have started on a pretense, but Bucky was fairly certain they’d moved past that. They were friends—in fact, Steve was probably his _best_ friend.

Bucky worried his lip, pizza lying forgotten on his lap. He could hear the dull buzzing of an argument about—he tuned in for a moment—whether the _Star Wars_ series should be viewed in chronological or episode order.

He tuned back out and took a bite of pizza.

So if Steve was already his friend, his _best_ friend, then what was he so afraid of? Why was it such a bad idea? Not only did he have Steve, he also had Natasha, and Clint, and the rest of the Avengers seemed ready enough to welcome him.

If that wasn’t a sign he could form healthy relationships, then what was?

But still, the thought of starting a romantic relationship so soon after gaining his sobriety…it felt dangerous, somehow. Like the kind of temptation he should avoid until he was more stable.

Steve was clearly interested, though. And while that thought sparked a warm heat in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, he didn’t think he was ready to reciprocate fully. Not on an emotional level.

Finishing off the last piece of his pizza, Bucky made a decision: He would talk to Steve about it, even though the thought of open and honest conversation possibly scared him more than his actual feelings. But frank discussion was the kind of thing _healthy_ people in _healthy_ relationships did—and besides, Steve would understand. He was an understanding kind of guy.

Mind made up, Bucky leaned forward to set his plate on the coffee table, and when he resettled, he let himself relax into Steve’s side.

Steve stiffened for a moment—in surprise, Bucky supposed—but relaxed again almost at once. Bucky tilted his head to look at him and found Steve already watching him. Bucky gave him a smile, and after a moment, Steve smiled back. He let his head come to rest against Steve’s shoulder and watched as Sam asked JARVIS to queue up the movie.

-

It was dark and quiet when Bucky woke, and he was verging on too warm. It took him a moment to orient himself in the darkness: He was at Stark Tower, he’d been watching movies with the Avengers, and his bed was moving because he’d evidently fallen asleep on Steve at some point during the movie. And it seemed that Steve either hadn’t minded or had fallen asleep himself, because at some point they’d shifted to a horizontal position on the couch, with Steve lying on his back and Bucky tucked on his side between Steve and the couch.

The room was silent but for Steve’s breathing, light and slow. Bucky shifted to pull his phone out of his pocket so he could check the time: 2:34 a.m. So much for movie night.

He sighed and laid his head back on Steve’s chest. He was still so tired. Just when he felt himself begin to drift off again, his phone buzzed in his hand. He lifted it, annoyed at the intrusion into his sleep, only to find it was a text from Brock.

Bucky felt anxiety shoot through his chest, sickly and hot.

_this is ur last chance, man. if you dont text me back this time im done. ive got an 8ball with ur name on it – meet me at my place by tomorrow nite if u want it_

His last chance, huh? That was Brock for you—total douchebag, assuming he was doing Bucky some kind of _favor_ in offering him a relapse on a silver platter—

Bucky realized he had dropped his phone to the floor with a clatter at about the same time he realized he was hyperventilating. And apparently one of those sounds had woken Steve, who was suddenly all up in Bucky’s face with his concerned expression and words Bucky couldn’t quite make out—

—because he had his hands clasped over his ears, he realized as Steve pried them away with a gentle grip.

“Hey, Buck, it’s okay. You’re okay. Can you tell me what you need?”

Bucky shook his head. He had a death grip on Steve’s forearms now, which were bracketing Bucky’s head; Bucky was the one on his back now, with Steve leaning over him, half off the couch. He looked like he was ready to go call the goddamn Secret Service or some shit.

“Just keep breathing, okay? I’m gonna count to ten and you just breathe in time with me, okay?”

Steve started counting and slowly, very slowly, Bucky felt his breath easing. Without allowing himself time to revisit why it was probably not the best idea, Bucky brought his arms up around Steve’s neck and yanked the other man down until he could tuck his face into the nook of Steve’s neck and just breathe him in.

That, more than any of Steve’s careful ministrations, helped to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in Bucky’s chest. For his part, Steve felt frozen: He was bracing himself against the couch, keeping the bulk of his body off of Bucky’s. Their only points of contact were Bucky’s hands and his face against Steve’s neck.

“Bucky…”

Steve sounded apprehensive, but that was just about the only emotion Bucky could definitely pinpoint. Confusion, too, maybe.

Bucky released some of his pressure on Steve’s neck, letting the other man straighten to look down at him. Steve certainly _looked_ confused. He had a million questions written on his face, and the thought of answering even one left Bucky exhausted.

“What do you need, Buck?”

Fuck, if Bucky knew the answer to _that_ , he probably wouldn’t have spent half his life burying himself in addiction and distraction to avoid facing himself.

Rather than contemplating how he could possibly answer that question, Bucky reached up again, cupped both sides of Steve’s jaw, and pulled the other man down until he could seal their lips together in a kiss.

Steve froze again, and Bucky braced for him to pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, Steve tilted his head and kissed Bucky back, slow and easy; he relaxed, coming down onto his forearms so the angle of his neck was more natural, though he kept their hips tilted apart.

Bucky could feel himself entering a dangerous state of mind, the kind of place he went when he knew he was going to get high—fully aware he was making the wrong decision and doing it anyway, because sometimes hurting himself felt so _good_.

He bit Steve’s lip and tugged, sucking hard and slow, letting his nails scrape lightly up Steve’s scalp. Steve’s entire body shuddered. Breath hitching on an inhale, Steve leaned further into the kiss and opened his mouth, inviting Bucky in.

Bucky slid his tongue inside and couldn’t suppress a moan at the feeling.

 _I should stop this_ , Bucky thought, feeling guilty even as he shifted to let Steve slip between his thighs. Steve’s mouth felt delicious, intoxicating—not quite as heady as cocaine, but pretty goddamn close. The scrape of stubble across his chin, his cheeks, the sides of his mouth, was like a conductor, sending sharp shocks of electric current down through Bucky’s body.

He shivered and pulled back to take a breath. He could feel the words forming on his lips— _I should stop this_ —but they fizzled out into a groan as Steve moved down his neck. He nipped the base of Bucky’s neck, sucking a mark into the skin.

 _I should stop this_ , Bucky thought, letting his head fall back against the armrest of the couch as he carded his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Steve’s head. He felt like he was underwater, or like he was watching himself from somewhere near Stark’s vaulted ceiling, just being buffeted along, sensation by sensation. Without any conscious thought, he felt himself hike his legs up around Steve’s waist, pulling him in until he was tucked tight between Bucky’s legs.

Steve’s hips twitched against him. _I should stop this_ , but it came out as a moan and he pulled Steve back up, and smashed their lips together, and that was almost pain more than pleasure, but Steve groaned like he liked it, and Bucky—and Bucky—

He shoved Steve off of him, knocking him onto the floor in the process. Steve looked up at him with shock, and hurt, and maybe a little guilt.

Bucky ignored the look on his face and slipped off the couch in a smooth, languid glide. He straddled Steve and slid his hands up the other man’s chest, baring his now-heaving stomach. Steve reached out like he was going to tug Bucky toward him, but Bucky swatted his hands away and pulled his own shirt off in one swift movement.

Then he leaned down, twisting until he could reach Steve’s belly. He pressed a kiss there, then slid the shirt up and pressed another kiss between Steve’s ribs. Up, against his chest. Up, between his collarbones. Up, up, up, until he was biting and licking his way into Steve’s mouth, groaning low in his throat at the feeling of skin on skin.

Steve was shaking a little—all over, like his nerves were overloading from too much input. Bucky licked into his mouth again, and Steve’s hands came up to grip Bucky’s hips like a lifeline, and Bucky wasn’t thinking anything at all.

-

Bucky woke with a lump in the pit of his stomach and a clammy sense of dread coating his body like cold sweat.

He sat up slowly. It was like the night after a blackout: knowing you’d been out of control, that bone-deep certainty you’d fucked up beyond repair.

He could see Steve out of the corner of his eye. If there was an upside to last night— _there’s not_ —it was that they made it to Steve’s room rather than fucking on the living room floor. Bucky thought he might have preferred it that way, actually.

It was still dark out—couldn’t have been more than two hours since they’d passed out—but he could see Steve next to him, asleep, laying on his back with one arm tucked under his head. His chest was bare; the sheet was draped across Steve’s waist like a goddamn invitation, but looking at him just made Bucky feel sick.

He slipped out of bed, moving as carefully and quietly as he could. He grabbed his boxers, his pants, wiggled into them quickly. Then he slipped out of the room, easing the door shut behind him.

Bucky located his shirt and his hoodie in no time at all. Hunting down his shoes took a bit longer, but eventually he found them stuffed under the cushion of Clint’s chair.

After slipping on his shoes and making sure he had his phone and his wallet, he slipped out of the living room and started through the kitchen. He drew up short at the sight of Tony tinkering with something at the counter.

The other man glanced up at him, several nails tucked between his lips. He appeared to be fiddling with a toaster, but knowing Stark, it was probably sentient somehow.

Tony turned to face him, straightening up and dropping the nails into his hand. Bucky felt like a lab specimen splayed out for dissection: he knew if he opened his mouth, everything he was trying to keep inside would come tumbling out like slick, loose innards.

Tony gave a short grunt. “Bucky Barnes, America’s playboy,” he said, almost absently, flipping the toaster upside down. He was still angled toward Bucky, but he kept his face turned toward his project. “You did something stupid, and now you’re running, right?”

Bucky swallowed hard. He’d felt worse about himself before, but not by much.

“I’ve been there,” Tony said, still in that casual tone, like they were discussing stock options or some shit. “I’m not really a platitudes kinda guy, though, and talking about my feelings gives me hives, so I think we should just pretend we never saw each other, how ‘bout that?”

Bucky forced himself to swallow again, but he still couldn’t speak. He made a noise of agreement that sounded like someone crushing an accordion, and ducked around Stark to reach the elevator. The doors shut on Tony thwacking the toaster with the handle end of a screwdriver, muttering to himself about rusted coils.

As the elevator descended, Bucky pulled out his phone and made a call:

“Hey, man. … Yeah, I know—I’ve been busy, what can I say? … Yeah. … Yeah, uh-huh. Listen, can I drop by a little early? I know you said tonight, but… Yeah, yeah, a couple hours should work. Thanks, Brock. See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have some fun facts I found while "researching" (i.e. procrastinating) for this chapter:
> 
> I was curious about 1930s sex education, and in the course of my "research," I discovered that Sylvester Graham, inventor of the Graham cracker, also spent some time traveling the East Coast in the 1830s warning US citizens of "the immense evils of self-pollution." In order to prevent those evils "in our boys and students," Graham advised: "They should always subsist on a plain, simple, unstimulating, vegetable, and water diet; and care should be taken that they do not eat too fast, and are not excessive, in quantity. They should never be kept too long a time in a sitting, confined, or inactive posture. They should never sleep on feathers."
> 
> In 1920, meanwhile, English teacher Lucy S. Curtiss "encouraged teachers to draw on classical literature when explaining sex to students," citing "Lancelot's wild, passionate quest for the Holy Grail" as an example of "the bitter experience of a soul which has rendered itself incapable of receiving the full spiritual blessing through the sin of yielding to impure desire."
> 
> So there ya go, folks.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr is [here](http://non-prophet.tumblr.com/), if you're interested!


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